


a.d. infinitum

by pega



Category: Arrested Development, Groundhog Day - Minchin/Rubin
Genre: Blunder, Don't worry about the death, Each chapter is heavily inspired by a combo of songs from the musical, I highly recommend listening before reading cause #references, It's Lucille Austero, It's a Groundhog Day/Arrested Development crossover!, M/M, reverse slowburn, sex then feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-02
Updated: 2019-02-02
Packaged: 2019-10-20 19:16:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,889
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17628086
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pega/pseuds/pega
Summary: “Everything I dreamt last night is coming true.”That makes Sally pause. “Well, were they good dreams?”Tony thinks back to Gob and masks coming on and masks coming off and- “They were mixed.”





	1. Shallow talk

**Author's Note:**

> Shoutout to the amazing human known under many names who helped plan, draft, and outline! And wrote the vital John and Joni banter <3

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC, and Joni, can you imagine anything better than throwing chorizos in the bay today?” _

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

_ “Why can’t they just say five? Well, who’s to say on that. And now, to the weather-” _

 

Tony Wonder doesn’t fucking understand why anyone even bothers to have a weather report in Orange County. It’s going to be between seventy and sunny and eighty and sunny. The odds of rain are nonexistent, just like the odds of him giving a crap about these screechy voiced radio personalities that are totally C list, at best. 

 

Tony deliberately ignores the fact that he’s also C list at best. A man’s gotta have some pride, and besides, Tony Wonder is on his way up and out of this dump.

 

Not that his apartment is a dump. His apartment is actually a super sweet setup, the perfect bachelor pad for parties and one night stands. From the heavy velvet curtains he custom ordered to keep out daylight to his circular bed and black satin sheets, everything about his life screams luxury and style. 

 

_ “So it’ll be sun and fun for today’s Cinco de Cuatro celebration! Don’t ya just love Newport Beach, John?” _

_ “I sure do, Joni! And later tonight at Cinco, watch out for Herbert Love’s latest campaign-” _

 

Tony’s old school radio alarm clock is his best friend and worst enemy. Literally annoying himself to ensure that he wakes up and stays up might be painful, but it’s damn efficient. 

 

He pulls himself up out of bed and takes a glance through the crack in his curtains at the street below. There are two kids in pastel polo shirts (living in Orange County is an aesthetic nightmare) carrying a piñata to inevitably destroy later tonight. When Tony lived in New York, he’s pretty sure there was no Cinco de Cuatro, or even any holidays founded just on spite and the desire to break things, but he also spent his time almost exclusively in the club scene, magic scene, or magic club scene, so he can’t say for sure that Cinco de Cuatro is a Newport specific thing.

 

But like. It’s a fucked up, low-key racist excuse to drink to excess. 

 

It’s probably a Newport thing.

 

There’s a drought that means hiked up water prices, which means he can’t take the full hour he’d like to take in the shower. His favorite black button down got ruined at the dry cleaners, even though Tony explicitly told them to not use bleach. Apparently, the idiots just use bleach as a matter of course, since gleaming white linens are a Newport staple, which is just another reason why he hates this town. 

 

Everything is tacky, loud, and no one has any sense of sophistication. 

 

The only slightly cool place in town is the Gothic Castle, and they’ve started getting antsy about Tony ponying up their ten percent of his ticket sales. And admittedly, Tony’s sales haven’t been great lately. Which is why his agenda for today includes a private show at the Gothic Castle, booked last week when a drunk guy pulled him off stage and asked if he’d like to make a hundred bucks.

 

Tony has his dignity, so he negotiated up to two hundred before saying yes.

 

He’s not sure he wants to find out who books a gay magician (THE Gay Magician) for eleven am on a Saturday, but he needs the funds. 

 

His apartment is within walking distance to the Gothic Castle. Which is convenient, because his license was suspended about a month ago for a combination of reckless driving and unpaid speeding tickets. Walking is gross in the SoCal heat, but it’s at least entertaining to watch all of the Newport Beach families get ready for Cinco de Cuatro. 

 

It’s barely ten thirty in the morning, but there are already groups of revelers completely wasted in the street, laughing like jerks and speaking terrible spanish. 

 

“Happy Cinco de Cuatro, my amigo!” One wasted bro tries to chest bump Tony, but he dodges him with an eye roll and a quick New York step to the side. “Hey, hombre!” This guy is pronouncing the h, which even Tony knows you’re not supposed to do. 

 

After thirty more seconds of pointed walking and non responsiveness from Tony, the guy gives up, thankfully. “Screw you, man, where’s your Cinco spirit?”

 

Tony really shouldn’t get involved, but he’s still twitchy from that inane banter on the radio. “Up your ass, like your sense of what constitutes an actual holiday!”

 

“What?” 

 

Tony leaves the guy blinking and gapping like an idiotic fish. He doesn’t have time for this.  He has a show to put on.

 

Unfortunately, It turns out, the “private show” the drunk guy wanted is for his bachelor party. He’s getting gay-regular married tomorrow. Which, if you asked Tony, is the biggest waste ever. The whole point of dating dudes is that you don’t have to do the marriage thing. 

 

Not that Tony is necessarily dating dudes, but, you know, he gets offers. The gay magician branding is really just that, branding, but he can appreciate a good time and a rockin bod regardless of gender. He spends more time in the gay scene these days just because the minute he even shows interest in a girl, his mother gets all excited and wants to meet her, and then the girl gets all interested in ‘emotional honesty’ and ‘commitment’. Dudes are just easier. And maybe better kissers, all things being equal.

 

It also turns out that by “private show”, the drunk guy meant he wanted Tony as a stripper. Which is so not what he does. Damn Gothic Castle. If he was in a real place, anywhere but Newport, people would understand what a gem he is, what talent and style he possesses. He’d never be mistaken for a stripper twice a month because he would be recognized for what he is, a powerhouse magician with an excellent eye for show stopping style. 

 

He compromises with the groom-to-be because he does need the cash, but also, he feels bad for him, the poor sucker. He agrees to do his normal act but without his shirt, and the groomsmen seem entertained enough. They’re also shitfaced, but in Newport, who isn’t? Tony steals enough sips of their margaritas to get a little tipsy himself. 

 

Then the best man throws up on him. Half a dozen semi-digested cosmopolitans erupt right onto Tony’s favorite weather inappropriate leather pants, bright red in a way that feels primally wrong on both an evolutionary level and an emotional level.

 

Not to mention financial. Tony’s wearing $600 pants. 

 

Great.

 

The wasted wedding party doesn’t even register what a crisis this is, because they just take the opportunity to try and cajole Tony into taking off his pants as well. It almost turns into a bar brawl, but the bartender steps in and makes the group give Tony an extra twenty bucks for the dry cleaning. It’s embarrassing how much it mollifies him, but whatever. He also gets to bounce early, which is good because now Tony can change for his lunch date with Sally Sitwell.

 

The trip back to his apartment is a little more harrowing, the crowds are starting to gather and on average, everyone is two margaritas into their celebratory brunches. 

 

“Did you hear about Lucille Bluth?” One particularly bejeweled matron waves her elaborate claws around, clearly captivating her group of hangers on. “The only reason she’s not in jail? Rehab.”

 

“No!” The other women gasp. 

 

Tony wonders for a moment if this Bluth is related to Gob Bluth, but he doesn’t really care about that. Everyone has that one family member that’s a little out there. Maybe she’s a wayward second cousin or something. 

 

What Tony does care about is getting his hands on some of that Fakeblock money from Gob’s boyfriend. He tried to Search George Maharis, but of course, there’s no contact information for him online. Obviously. Duh. Privacy software. Tony felt stupid just trying it, honestly. 

 

But all Tony needs is a lucky break, really. He has his vision all planned out, and he knows, he  _ knows _ he could do a better job than that transcendentalist hack Doug Henning. He just needs a nouveau riche tech douche to fund his dream. Cause like, producing the perfect The Magic Show remake would be a mix of innovation, philanthropy, and the arts, a total tax write off hole in one. 

 

Obviously Tony will also star in this production. That’s a given. He slips into one of his favorite daydreams as he showers (again, which means tomorrow he’ll have to be all the more, ugh, conscientious about his water use). He’ll probably have to keep up the gay magician thing for his remake, but that’s fine, magic can transcend both gender and physics.

 

Maybe Gob will want in? He would need someone to play Cal, and if the gay branding is still a thing...

 

Nah. Gob’s still the Christian Magician. This has to be a quick infiltration mission. Get in, get George Maharis’s number, find an excuse to take a raincheck on the sex, take a forget me now, and get out. 

 

Or, get in, have sex, get George Maharis’s number, take a forget me now, and get out. The order on the sex thing isn’t a super big deal. Tony’s neutral on the topic. For sure. 

 

Sally picks him up around one. It’s embarrassing to get driven by a chick under usual circumstances, but with Sally it’s fine since she’s repeatedly told Tony that a, she’s “not a chick, I’m a woman and a woman of business and high breeding at that” and b, she’s not going to wait forever for Tony to walk everywhere for them to hang out. Which, fair. 

 

He just wishes Sally had a more subtle car. Her car is not only Malibu Barbie Pink, it’s decked out with custom “SALLY” vanity plates that she bought off of a grandmother in Modesto in a battle of negotiations that allegedly left both parties in tears. Sally’s were crocodile tears, of course, but they got the job done. 

 

“So,” Sally begins as soon as Tony climbs in. “I have exactly one hour and fifteen minutes before I need to get ready for pre rally conference with Lucille Austero, so use your breath wisely. What’s the status on Gob Bluth?”

 

Tony’s used to Sally by now. “Noted. Uh. Gob and I have a sex date set for tonight, to make up for him standing me up last week at the Little Ballroom.

 

“And you’ll be able to get the contact info for the Fakeblock guy?” Sally swerves to avoid maiming a pedestrian. The guy just chuckles and moves aside, when a normal reaction would be to flip them off, and god, Tony hates Southern California so much. “This is pivotal, Tony, I don’t think Gob will fall for the gay act a third time.”

 

“Well,” Tony equivocates. “He’s pretty into me, so I don’t think it’s  _ that _ urgent, you know?” Tony knows that they need to get in touch with George Maharis soon, but like. It’s not fair to say that Gob wouldn’t fall for the ‘gay act’ a third time. Tony’s pretty freaking good at the gay act. Like, super good. He’s basically the best at pretending to be gay. Being interested in sleeping with men helps a lot with that.

 

Sally rolls her eyes. “Don’t catch feelings, idiot.” 

 

Sally picks out a cafe Tony hasn’t been to yet. It’s called La Rue Fantastique, and is basically a francophile’s dream decor. It looks like Paris has thrown up on the walls, which wouldn’t be so bad, except that the cafe is clearly “in the Cinco spirit”. The waitresses are wearing sombreros and someone has expo-markered Spanish style moustaches on all the framed black and white portraiture of mimes. 

 

It’s so hideous, Tony almost loves it.

 

Sally cracks a grin at him over the table. “It’s appalling, isn’t it?” And this is why they’re kind of almost friends. Sally gets him, sees his ruthlessness and sarcasm and sends a matching volley right back. 

 

“Bonjour! Feliz dia de Cuatro!” The waitress offers them a tired smile. “Our special today is a light bisque served with tacos on the side.” 

 

“Can we just get two black coffees to start?” Sally passes back the menus unopened. “After that, a light salad would be acceptable for me, and Tony will take you up on those tacos.”

 

Tony snorts. “Like hell I will. You have decent omelettes, right?”

 

The waitress nods cautiously. 

 

“One of those then.”

 

The waitress scurries away, probably to get out of Sally’s oozing aura of self confidence. Sally decidedly doesn’t notice and turns back to Tony, focusing all of her intensity in his direction. “You have to get that money, Tony.” 

 

Tony tries not to roll his eyes. “I know, I know, it’s just-”

 

“-She’s looking into the campaign records.” Sally twitches. “She already wants to collect on a debt from Michael Bluth.”

 

Sally worries entirely too much. “It’ll be fine. I have it under control.” Tony pointedly sips the coffee that the waitress brought while Sally was freaking out. “Let me tell you about my day, okay? Cause that was nuts.” 

 

Her twitching doesn’t go away, but Sally doesn’t interrupt Tony’s retelling of his harrowing experience at the Gothic Castle. Because obviously, Tony’s a great storyteller, and this has honestly been such a shitty day, like, the worst day a single person could have. 

 

Tony’s a saint for putting up with it, he really is.

 

The omelette is indeed decent, but that’s about all he can say on its behalf. The coffee is excellent though, and Tony can feel himself getting ready to really start the day, morning bachelor party be damned. Sally murmurs something at the end about calling him later and checking in about the loan, but he waves her off, since after tonight, they won’t need to worry about money or the loan or anything ever again.

 

Tony’s just that good at being fake gay.

 

~

 

The heavy breathing in the room lets him know he’s been scammed before anyone says a word. Whatserface is too tiny to hyperventilate that loud. Tony pulls off his mask to better illuminate the bait-and-switch-and, well, he should have known. She has a clear bone to pick with Gob too, after all.

 

Tony drops his Gob mask onto the floor. It hits the ground with a heavy thunk.

 

“Gob?” says Tony.

 

“Tony!” says Gob, voice cracking. He scrambles to turn on the light at the side of the bed. Gob is wearing a Tony Wonder mask - so  _ that’s _ where that went - and a shudder runs up Tony’s spine at how uncanny it is on Gob’s body. His fingers itch to take it off of Gob’s face and look in his eyes and just, and just -

 

“What are you doing here?” says Tony because outside of whatserface’s revenge this really makes no sense. 

 

Gob tucks his fingers under the chin of the mask and peels it off of his face. His hair is mussed and sweaty, blurring the sharp lines of his widow’s peak. He looks at the mask and then at Tony and then places the mask next to him on the bed. His eyes are far away for a moment, as though he’s hearing something Tony can’t. Then, he blinks hard, and grins too wide.

 

“I’m waiting for our sex date,” he says. 

 

Too much is on the line for Tony to do anything but reply, “Let’s get started, then.”

 

~~~~

 

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC, and Joni, can you imagine anything better than throwing chorizos in the bay today?” _

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

_ “Why can’t they just say five? Well, who’s to say on that. And now, to the weather-” _

 

Huh. Tony remembers this. He remembers this so called ‘witty banter’ between John Beard and Joni Beard. He’s also pretty sure he didn’t set his alarm last night, since he got home pretty late.

 

Oh well. Tony shrugs off the deja vu. It can happen sometimes with forget me nows, things feeling familiar when they shouldn’t be. 

 

Although, wait, did he even take a forget me now last night? Because he can remember Gob’s face in the darkness, and that’s definitely supposed to be erased by now. 

 

_ “So it’ll be sun and fun for today’s Cinco de Cuatro celebration! Don’t ya just love Newport Beach, John?” _

_ “I sure do, Joni! And later tonight at Cinco, watch out for Herbert Love’s latest campaign-” _

 

And if he can remember sex with Gob, that means Cinco de Cuatro was yesterday, not today. But maybe Newport Beach celebrates Cinco de Cuatro over the course of several days or something. It’s no big deal. He cracks open his curtains just to be sure and, yep, there are some punk kids getting ready for another night of debauchery. 

 

It’s funny though, they look just like the kids from yesterday.

 

On a hunch, Tony checks his closet. 

 

His favorite leather pants are hanging near the front, in perfect condition. 

 

Weird. 

 

Tony knows that he didn’t have time to get them cleaned yesterday. So maybe yesterday wasn’t yesterday at all. His grandma used to claim she was a medium for visions and premonitions. He used to think that was all superstitious junk, the ramblings of a sweet old lady who watched too many Hallmark movies about angels, but hey, maybe that’s what’s going on. He’s had vivid dreams before. 

 

To be fair, those dreams were usually when he was in his twenties and under the influence of more drugs than he uses now. But that shit can linger in your system, PBS said so. And he’s not exactly sure what the side effects are of long term forget me now usage, since the pharmacist he gets his prescription from doesn’t speak English. 

 

His phone says it’s May 4th. 

 

Well. Eleven am bachelor parties wait for no man. 

 

One long shower later, Tony is dressed in his second best pair of pants. He’s not about to risk his favorite leather pants after that dream about the vomiting best man, no sir. 

 

The people in the street are just as obnoxious as he expected. A group of frat bros wearing matching sombreros are playing beer pong in the street, and Tony starts to get a sinking feeling in his gut as a familiar looking blond with sunglasses turns towards him. 

 

“Happy Cinco de Cuatro, my amigo!” He tries to chest bump Tony, but it’s like the guy’s ever move is choreographed in his mind like three steps ahead. Tony easily dodges him, but there’s something too easy about it. 

 

Sunglasses looks pissed at being ignored. “Hey, hombre!” Tony doesn’t have time for this, he really doesn’t, so he keeps walking. 

 

“Screw you, man, where’s your Cinco spirit?”

 

“What did you just say?” Because Tony’s heard that before, he’s sure of it. Maybe it’s from a movie or something?

 

The guy straightens his spine, clearly mishearing Tony’s clarification question as a conflict escalation question and oh, crap, Tony’s made a huge mistake. “I said. Where’s. Your. Cinco. Spirit?” 

 

Tony shakes his head, hopefully appeasingly. “Sorry man, I’m just on my way to work, but hey! I’m totally partying later, okay?” Which is true in a way, he does have that sex date with Gob. 

 

He manages to disentangle himself from the now cheering bro bunch, and gets to the Gothic Castle more or less on time. The bachelor party is already in full swing, and it isn’t until Tony is halfway through congratulating the groom-to-be that he realizes he really shouldn’t have known it was a bachelor party with the information given. But he knew, he really did, the same way he has an increasingly vague sense of anxiety about the best-man throwing up on him, even though that only happened in a dream last night and not-

 

“Oh my god.” 

 

The best man is ushered away by the other groomsmen, and yep, Tony’s pants are now coated in mildly digested cranberry juice and vodka. 

 

Tony hightails it out of there, knowing he looks visibly shaken, visibly freaking out, and he doesn’t care. He doesn’t bother to negotiate higher, and the bartender doesn’t try to stop him, he just looks at Tony’s pale and panicked face and helps rush him out the side door. But the bright sunlight of Newport Beach feels profoundly wrong in this moment, with the noise and the heat and the chaos threatening to overwhelm Tony, to drown him in a wave of way too much familiarity he can’t explain.

 

He dials Sally’s number from inside an empty recycling can. 

 

“Why does your voice sound so tinny?” Sally picks up on the third ring, thank god. “If you’re calling to cancel on me for today, don’t, cause I’m so busy right now and that’s my only scheduled lunch break and-”

 

“Sal-” Tony swallows hard. “If I was on a reality show, or was being pranked or something, you’d tell me, right?”

 

Sally pauses. “Probably. I mean, I’m basically your manager, so I’d want to make sure you came out looking good. Do you think you’re on a prank show?” She sounds intrigued.

 

Before Tony can respond, there’s a sharp knock on the side of his recycling bin. He lifts the lid a little, and there’s a medium-ish child looking at him, head tilted to the side. 

 

“You’re not supposed to be in there.” The kid gestures at the label. “It’s for paper and bottles only.”

 

Tony rolls his eyes. “I’m a magician, I’m allowed. I’m actually on the phone with my manager now, so. Scoot.” He waves away the child, who storms away with a glare.

 

“Wait, are you hiding in the trash?” Sally sounds more amused than concerned, the heartless witch. 

 

“It’s a recycling can and it’s empty, and that’s not the point!” Tony’s voice spikes up, and he tries to catch his breath. “Sally, I can’t explain it, but something’s off, I think I dreamed everything last night.”

 

“You’re not making sense, Tony.” Sally talks over his babbling, her voice radio smooth. “You dreamt everything?”

 

Tony huffs in frustration, because he can’t find the words to explain what’s happening because he doesn’t know what’s happening to him. “Everything I dreamt last night is coming true.”

 

That makes Sally pause. “Well, were they good dreams?”

 

Tony thinks back to Gob and masks coming on and masks coming off and- “They were mixed.”

 

“That’s ominous.” 

 

Tony has to laugh. “No shit.”

 

Sally doesn’t laugh back. “If this is some kind of joke, if you’re wasting my time, or if you’re on drugs, Tony, I swear to god-”

 

“-I’m not! That’s the problem!” Tony thinks back on his dream about Gob. “I mean, in the dream I took a forget-me-now.”

 

“The drug you magicians carry around creepily that is definitely just a roofie?”

 

It is so not creepy. “It’s so not creepy!” Tony growls. “It’s to preserve the sanctity of magic.” 

 

There’s another knock on his can. “Hang on a sec, Sally.” Tony opens the lid up again, ready to lay into the kid, but there’s an adult with her now, a polished woman that reminds him of Sally, tapping her mauve wedges impatiently in his direction.

 

“Sir, you’re going to need to get out of our recycling bin.” Her voice brokers no room for argument. Tony gets out of the recycling bin.

 

Sally texts him a few minutes later, saying that she can’t change her preset lunch break, but if Tony can avoid having a complete mental breakdown until she picks him up, that would be great. 

 

Tony takes another shower and tries very hard to avoid freaking out.

 

Turning psychic is a lot of responsibility, and he’s not great at responsibility. He couldn’t even read superhero comics as a kid, they gave him second hand anxiety. 

 

He’s more or less worked himself up into enough of a panic sweat to make the debate between taking a third shower and the resulting water bill (damn usage tiered pricing) tip in the pro-third-shower camp when Sally finally shows up. Her hot pink monstrocity collects some wolf whistles from the Cinco celebrants down the street, but Tony doesn’t have the time, energy, patience, or height to fight them today. Or any day, really, but if it was a particularly good day, he would engage in some New York style verbal sparring.

 

“So,” Sally starts. “I have exactly one hour and fifteen minutes before I need to get ready for pre rally conference with Lucille Austero, so use your breath wisely. What the hell do you mean, your dreams are coming true?”

 

The restaurant Sally takes him to basically verifies that his dreams (or in the case of the bastardization of both French and Mexican cuisine, nightmare) are coming true, because there’s no way this hellish cafe exists outside the realm of his subconscious. But that does posit an interesting and intimidating philosophical question for Tony, because if his dreams are literally coming true, that suggests that reality is more malleable than previously thought, and-

 

“You’re hyperventilating. You dreamt this too?” Sally’s voice breaks through his internal storm, and a small but well manicured hand pushes him back into a seat with surprising force. 

 

Tony nods, not sure he trusts himself to speak at his preferred pitch just yet. 

 

Sally stares back at him, contemplative. “What did I call you here to talk about?”

 

Tony blinks. “What?”

 

“Well. If you had this conversation in a dream last night, or a premonition or whatever, you should know what I’m about to say.”

 

Tony thinks, tries to piece together a conversation he only half remembers. “Uh. Don’t catch feelings for Gob?”

 

Sally shakes her head. “Not specific enough, and not what I was thinking. Good advice, and don’t do that, but nope, not why I brought you here.”

 

“Then what-”

 

“- Lucille Austero is getting suspicious. She’s already trying to collect a debt from Michael Bluth. We need to get those funds, and quickly.”

 

“Yes!” Tony jumps to his feet. “That is exactly what you said in my dream!”

 

Sally twitches. “If you only get deja vu after the fact, it’s not helpful, and it’s not genuinely predictive.” She takes a sip of her coffee. “If this keeps happening, I’ll find you a nice neurologist, someone with a corner office, but until then, keep it together.”

 

That’s about as comforting as Sally gets, really, so Tony takes it. 

 

She’s probably right. 

 

After all his dream about Gob makes no sense. 

 

Masks are a little too kinky for his taste. And why would that chick with the kid get involved?

 

Even with the premonition, it’s still a shock to see what’s-her-name standing in Gob’s foyer. 

 

“Tony?” She looks a little older, and it works for her, actually. There’s a bit more weight to her voice, like she’s seen more life than she had back when Tony first had the worst one night stand of his life.

 

He still can’t remember her name though. “Hey... girl.”

 

She shrugs off the slight like it’s nothing. “It's Ann. Awfully funny time to run into you.”

 

“Listen, I know, I know, child support, but today has just been an awful day for me, so can I circle back to you on that?” She’s the Christian one, right? So she’s supposed to be about love and forgiveness. “How did you find me, again?” Because this feels familiar, of course it does, but honestly, whenever she talks, it’s like an adult in Charlie Brown speaking, just a blur of noise that never sinks into Tony’s mind too well.

 

Bland blinks. “Gob invited me. He's planning on getting revenge on you.” 

 

Right. 

 

Revenge.

 

But the dream last night didn’t feel like revenge at all. It felt like something softer, something rawer than revenge. 

 

Tony’s not so sure Gob’s capable of revenge, really, when it comes down to it. He’s too open, too easy to redirect and manipulate and- “he would never do that,” Tony answers.

 

She lifts a latex mask up, practically rubs it in Tony’s face. “Then why did he want to have sex with me with this on?”

 

Tony doesn’t understand what’s happening. But he’s apparently psychic today. And last night, he dreamt up the best sex of his life, and that exact same mask was there. He’s supposed to wear that mask, no matter what this plain faced girl in front of him seems to think about that level of kinkiness.

 

If he grabs it from Bland a little too quickly, that’s his business. 

 

“I’ll show him.” He’ll show Gob a lot of things, actually, because he has the benefit of a prophetic dream to take their sex date from great to glorious.

 

And also steal George Maharis’s phone number or whatever.

 

~

 

Just as Tony crashes into his pillow, already hazy from the forget-me-now, he thinks about getting a dream journal. Nothing girly, just a notebook or something he can keep by his bed to write down any interesting dreams.

 

He’s asleep too quickly though, drugged and sated and a little scared of how comfortable he feels with the scent of Gob still on his shirt.

 

That dream thing probably won’t be relevant again anyway.


	2. Can anybody help me?

 

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC, and Joni, can you imagine anything better than throwing chorizos in the bay today?” _

 

Tony stares at his radio alarm clock, trying to work through his options.

 

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

 

One, his trusty alarm has finally conked it, and it’s stuck in a particularly weird way. Two, he’s lucid dreaming like that time he had a nervous breakdown in college while trying to get a business degree and he thought he could save time by skipping out on sleep but eventually crashed into a coffee coma and had vivid nightmares about the stock market for eleven hours. 

 

_ “Why can’t they just say five? Well, who’s to say on that. And now, to the weather-” _

 

Three, his last batch of forget-me-nows is like, super tainted. Four, Sally was lying to him about the reality show and he needs to start sleeping in cuter camera ready pajamas. 

 

_ “So it’ll be sun and fun for today’s Cinco de Cuatro celebration! Don’t ya just love Newport Beach, John?” _

 

_ “I sure do, Joni! And later tonight at Cinco, watch out for Herbert Love’s latest campaign-” _

 

Five, he’s having a medical emergency, something spooky and on late night television like a stroke, and he might die, and oh god, his mother will totally blame it on L.A. air pollution. 

 

“Hi, this is the Gothic Castle?” Tony doesn’t remember dialing, but the bored voice jolts him back into action.

 

“Great. I’m Tony, Tony Wonder, and I need to cancel my bachelor party performance today.” Tony’s professional no matter what, that’s for sure. 

 

The bored voice continues. “Alright. May I ask why?”

 

Well. “I’m about to have a nervous breakdown probably. Or I took some bad drugs. You know how it is.”

 

There’s a little laugh on the phone, and Tony wonders (did somebody say!) if maybe he’s talking to that one cute stage manager. “Noted. Enjoy your nervous breakdown slash bad trip.”

 

“I will, thanks. Have a good day!”

 

God damn it, he’s lived in California too long.

 

His next call is to Sally, which, of course, goes straight to voicemail. 

 

“Heyya, it’s Sally, leave a message at the tone!” Her voice contains multitudes of perkiness possibly of interest to the scientists at Nasa studying dark matter. 

 

“Hey, Sal, you absolutely have to tell me if this is a prank, okay? Because otherwise, I’m going to lose it, I’m going to run down the street naked and screaming and that would be bad media exposure for both of us. Call me as soon as you get this.”

 

Tony only has enough time to stress vomit once before Sally returns his call. Bad media exposure is her magic phrase, after all. “Tony, what’s going on?”

 

“AM I BEING PRANKED?” Tony can’t control his volume, he can barely control his intestines right now.

 

There’s silence on the other end of the line for a torturous beat. When Sally does answer, her voice is formal and stiff. “Not that I know of.”

 

“Sally, don’t fuck with me.” Tony knows he sounds desperate, knows he sounds crazy, but come on! The circumstances demand it.

 

“Hey!” Sally objects. “I’m not fucking with you. I’m also not omnipotent-”   
  


“-bullshit,” Tony mutters under his breath. Sally continues, undaunted.    
  
“-I’m Not Omnipotent, and I can’t guarantee that you aren’t being pranked until you give me more information.”

 

Tony looks out his window, just to be sure. Kids and teens are running around with piñatas, adults are sipping on oversized margaritas, and the entire street is coated in a preemptive carpet of confetti. “Sally,” he starts. “What did we do yesterday?”

 

Sally hums. “We didn’t see each other yesterday, I don’t think. I was working on the campaign press tour, and-”

 

“See!” Tony exclaims. “You’re wrong. Yesterday we went out to lunch, and the day before that we went to lunch, and I keep getting vomit on really nice pants, and Sally, it’s been Cinco de Cuatro the entire time!” He’s panting with the effort of trying to tell Sally everything, trying to convince her that she needs to listen. 

 

When Sally slips into her Rogue Reporter (tm) voice, Tony knows he’s screwed. “Tony, at this time, I can only advise you to seek discrete medical attention. Don’t do anything stupid. I need to get back to work, but text me if you need anything. I’m canceling our lunch date so that I can find you a nice neurologist, with-”

 

“-with a corner office, I know. Sally, we did this yesterday!” Tony tugs at his hair in frustration. “This is my third Cinco de Cuatro!”

 

“Tony, you’ve been living in SoCal for eight years.” 

 

He shakes his head, even though he knows Sally can’t see him. Unless it is a prank show. “No, I mean, it’s my third Cinco de Cuatro in a row. The same thing keeps happening over and over.” Sally’s silence conveys her patented crooked eyebrow raise of skepticism. Tony sighs. “You and I are going to go out to lunch at a tacky French place that is celebrating Cinco. The waitress will literally say ‘bonjour, feliz cinco de cuatro.’ You invited me to lunch because you’re worried about... something.”

 

Sally snorts. “Yes, there’s a French place I want to show you, but Tony, I told you about it two weeks ago.”

 

“Really?” Tony can’t remember that.

 

“Really. Which leads to my second point, Tony. Did you take any of those roofies?”

 

Tony groans. “For the last time, they aren’t roofies, they’re chemically similar compounds that can be used in case of a magical emergency. And yes, I took one yesterday and one the day before yesterday.”

 

“So you’ve taken a memory altering drug multiple times, and your memory has been altered?”

 

When she puts it like that. “Sal, something is really wrong, I can tell. This has never happened before, I swear. I mean the day has happened before, twice, but this isn’t a forget-me-now side effect, I know all of those!”

 

Someone calls out to Sally in the distance, and Tony can hear her curse under her breath. “Tony, I’ve got to go. Try and keep it together, if it’s still an issue tomorrow, we’ll deal with it.”

 

“What if there is no tomorrow?” Tony asks, but the dull buzz on the line means Sally’s not there anymore. He’s just alone in this apartment that feels too small for everything he’s feeling and too big for all that he is. 

 

Fine. He can handle this. He doesn’t need any help. All he needs to do is make it through today without taking any drugs, and he’ll be fine. He won’t even get out of bed. He’ll sit here and definitely not panic and tomorrow this will all be over. 

 

Gob’s laugh bubbles up from his memory, and visions of tangled legs and latex masks push over him like an ocean wave. He can almost smell Gob’s cologne.

 

Tony is dialing his cell again, fingers moving faster than his mind can keep up. “Hey, Gob, sorry man, I have to cancel our sex date. Rain check? Bye.” Tony’s proud of the way his voice sounds steady and sure, proud that he’s the one who’s stood Gob up now, ha. He’s on top, he’s-

 

He’s gently kissing Gob in the darkness. Or he recently kissed Gob gently in the darkness, or he dreamed about it, or something, because he can’t tell today from yesterday and it’s his right to let himself slip into that memory a little, if he wants.

 

Tony spends the day frantically jerking off and sleeping and crying.  He ignores the twenty two texts from Gob. And the three phone calls. Around ten pm, he makes the mistake of answering a facetime request.

 

“Hey, so-” Gob’s face is only barely in the frame, only just lit up by the ambient light out a window Tony remembers as being in Gob’s bedroom. His throat seizes up, and Tony thinks about closing out of the call, anything to avoid revealing how thoroughly wrecked he feels. But Gob is still talking, still pushing through, and Tony realizes exactly how drunk Gob sounds. Gob didn’t call to get answers from Tony. “-so it’s so funny that we’re you know, canceling our sex date, because I actually was already going to cancel, say hi egg!” A plain face ricochets into view, clearly annoyed. “Egg and I here, and I, we just had sex so-”

 

“-no, we didn’t, you just-”

 

“SO it’s no big deal, because I would have canceled anyway, you know? The guy in the, in the, in the bedroom, you know.”

 

Tony peers closer at the screen. “Are you crying?”

 

Gob coughs. “No.” Gob also promptly hangs up.

 

Tony decides he doesn’t have enough time to unpack all of that, and settles for eating an unholy amount of chocolate and jerking off one last time. Or, well. Two last times.

 

When the clock strikes midnight, he watches the clock tick past 12:01 am, and falls asleep in a loose flop of limbs and released anxiety, because he’s good, he’s surely safe. Tomorrow will be different and he can call Gob back, or ignore him, move on to a new scheme. It’ll be great.

 

Just to be sure though, he smashes his radio alarm clock against the wall. Then he throws the pieces out the window, showering the still partying populus of Newport Beach with electronic rubble. 

 

Just in case.


	3. Something something quantum quantum

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC, and Joni, can you imagine anything better than throwing chorizos in the bay today?” _

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

 

Tony needs help.

 

His radio alarm clock is definitely not smashed anymore. “Sally, you need to find me a nice neurologist. Today.” 

 

Sally’s somehow at the office even now, when this is a solid hour before Tony’s called her on any other day. The woman is a robot. “Tony, what are you talking about?” And Tony is an anti-robot. He feels like flesh right now, feels soft and squishy and glitchy, vulnerable in all the worst ways compared to this womanly disembodied voice on the end of the line. 

 

It’s not that he’s in love with Sally. Tony’s been in love before, not very often, okay, but often enough. Tony knows what it’s like to convince someone you’re worth it, to seduce and play the game of pick up lines and flash. That’s not what he has with Sally, and thank god for that, because she’d eat him alive. And not in the fun way, not in a sexy way at all. 

 

Sally is his friend though, his pseudo agent. She understands how badly he wants this, because Sally wants more than anyone else he’s ever met. She gets the drive, the hunger. Only unlike Tony, Sally has her shit together. If anyone can help him, it’s going to be Sally, with her binders and Rolodex (an actual Rolodex, purchased for way too much money at a charity auction). 

 

“Sally, something’s wrong with my brain. I need a neurologist.” 

 

True to form, Sally gets him an appointment before noon. She stops asking questions once it becomes clear that Tony isn’t going to answer them. She knows his insurance information better than he does, anyway.

 

Tony takes a long, hot shower. If he’s going crazy, he’d better be clean when they lock him away. He’s heard that psych wards have horrible water pressure, and an absolutely abysmal selection of skin care products. And Tony cannot live without his honeycrisp face wash. 

 

The address Sally texts him is halfway across town, but Tony shells out for a taxi without complaint. He thinks about calling his mom, but decides against it. Naomi is a worrier, and Tony should at least figure out if he’s actually dying before accidentally telling his mom he is. 

 

Tony hates how all Newport Beach medical offices try to pretend they’re spas. The fancier the office, the more aggressively laissez faire they seem to approach design and sanitation, but like, in an anal way. 

 

“Hi there, welcome to Happy Horizons Neurological Imaging Center! Would you like a vanilla latte while you wait?”

 

Tony sighs. “I’m kind of in a hurry here, dude.”

 

The receptionist offers back an exaggerated frown. “I’m sorry to hear that! If you are having an emergency, please call 911 if necessary. Otherwise, we’ll get to you as soon as possible.” His smile reveals what Tony is pretty sure is an unusually high number of teeth. “I can offer you a soothing facial scrub? For meditative purposes?”

 

“I don’t think you’re using that word right.”

 

He blinks. “Scrub? It’s organic, and thicker than soap?”   
  


“No, not- sure. Sure. I’ll take the scrub. I’m here to see Dr. Densen, by the way.” Apparently, Tony was wrong about available facial care products, because that scrub is fantastic. He emerges from the bathroom feeling like a baby’s hand just slapped his face multiple times. It’s invigorating, and he follows the nurse into the consultation room with a spring in his step. This is manageable. He can handle this.

 

His confidence wanes when the nurse tells him to disrobe and put on that flimsy paper gown, but proper skin care has always been a surefire comfort for Tony, and he’s a creature of habit. He manages to hold on to some semblance of a good mood until the doctor comes in and asks him point blank if he’s on meth. 

 

“First of all, no. Second of all, woah, lady. Unprofessional.” 

 

Dr. Densen sighs. “I’m sorry, we’re just on edge, there’s a methadone clinic with some truly questionable practices.” The doctor is younger than Tony thought she’d be, dressed in crisp business casual, actual business casual, not the California hippie crap. “Tell me about your belief that there’s something wrong with your brain. And remember, this is going to be totally confidential.”

 

“Well, it starts-”

 

“Hold on-” Dr. Densen interrupts. She types rapidfire on her keyboard until Tony’s medical chart is pulled up. “Okay, now you can continue.”

 

Tony pauses. “I thought this was confidential.”

 

“Oh, it is!” Dr. Densen assures, still typing.

 

“Right, but I feel like you’re taking notes.” Tony feels obligated to point this out. “Like, it’s fine, but that’s not confidential.”

 

Dr. Densen types faster. “What makes you feel that way?”

 

“It’s just- it’s fine, whatever. Anyway-”

 

Tony gets about as far as ‘time loop’ before Dr. Densen cuts him off. “Let’s review your family medical history.”

 

Twenty minutes of focused questions later, Tony is handed an appointment slip to come back next week for an MRI scan. “There isn’t going to be a next week, we need to handle this today!” Tony yells. 

 

Dr. Densen frowns. “I’m a professional, Mr. Wonder. I can’t expedite medical requests unless there is an urgent need.”

  
“And being stuck in time isn’t urgent?” 

 

“Far be it for me to call any patient delusional, but urgent need is defined in this clinic as a physical necessity.” Dr. Densen enters in a few mysterious notes into Tony’s digital file. “I can offer you a small dose of a sedative to help with your anxiety-”

 

Tony has to fight to keep down a growl of irritation. “I’m not anxious, I’m-”

 

“Stuck in time, yes. An apt metaphor for feelings of futility, stress, and anxiety.”

 

“It’s not a metaphor!”

 

Dr. Densen states him down unblinkingly. “Right. What pharmacy is best for you?”

 

By the time Tony gets to the Walgreens by his apartment, the pharmacy is closed. “It’s only three pm?” Tony tries to wheedle the store clerk into opening back up. “Can’t you just fill this one prescription?” 

 

The gangly teenager scoffs, loud and horse like, reminiscent of a 90s sitcom gag. “What are you, from the methadone clinic or something?”   
  


“What the hell is going on at that clinic?” Tony mutters to himself. “No, I have a real prescription, and it’s urgent.”

 

The clerk shows no mercy, just teenage exhaustion and existential dread. “Sorry. Capitalism, you know?” He gestures blandly at the ridiculously limited pharmacy hours. “Can’t be a working man in this society.”

 

Tony blinks. “You’re like, fourteen. How can you be disillusioned already?”

 

“You’d be surprised. And anyway, I’m sixteen. Labor laws, heard of them? Won by the blood and sweat of unions, not that anyone seems to remember anymore.” He pushes past Tony towards the personal hygiene aisle, and Tony lets him go. He thinks he can hear the clerk muttering a dark string of very creative curses amid the tampons, and makes the decision to just grab as many candy bars and trashy magazines as he can. 

 

He’ll just try again tomorrow. He’ll have the time. 

 

“The void beckons.”    
  


Tony has to bite back a string of R rated curses. Before he can select a Pg 13 option, a manager also materializes out of thin air. “Harrison! We’ve talked about this, man.” The manager turns to Tony, apologetic. “He’s still training, sorry, sir.”

 

Tony blinks against the sudden stream of customer service. “It’s fine. He’s right, anyway.”

 

The manager frowns. “Okay. Well. I’ll just comp...” his eyes trace over Tony’s pile of candy and magazines. “...are you okay, sir?”

 

“Hey!” Tony feels like he’s been judged on his Walgreens items. “I’m fine. I’m famous, actually, which is better than fine.”

 

“Okay, buddy.”

 

Tony gets his People magazine and Twix bar comped, and passes over a twenty to cover the rest. Which actually poses an interesting question. If he lives this day again tomorrow, a fifth time, will the twenty still be in his wallet? Cause that could be a decent perk. 

 

He steps outside and realizes that he has no desire to go back to his apartment. Sure, the outside world is terrifying, and he’s slightly frightened at the prospect of breaking time and the universe by messing around. But ultimately, Tony Wonder is not built for a solitary existence. He needs the crowds, needs attention, needs someone to see him.

 

“Hey, Gob?”

 

“Tony! Didn’t expect you to call until later. How, how are you?” Gob sounds like he ran to catch the phone, and Tony feels a little smile fighting its way to his face at that thought. 

 

“I’m good.” Tony remembers the neurologist and the existentially terrifying nightmare. “I’m okay, there’s some drama, but, well.”

 

Gob laughs. “Oh, I feel you there. My mother is driving me nuts, rambling on about the wall and the budget and legal issues and stuff like that.”

  
"Mind if I come over kinda early for our sex date?"  
  


Gob coughs. "Um. Definitely not."

  
"Great. See you in fifteen minutes."

 

~~~

 

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC-” _

 

Tony immediately shuts off the alarm and reaches for his phone. His fingers shake while he pulls up Sally’s contact information. “Sally, you need to find me a sketchy neurologist. Someone sketchy that can run all the tests today.”

 

There’s a long stretch of silence on the line. “What.” It isn’t a question, and Tony feels the de ja vu of every previous attempt to convince Sally pressing in on him. 

 

“There’s something wrong with my brain, and I need it handled within the next-” Tony checks his clock, “-sixteen hours. So. Sketchy neurologist. Please.”

 

“Well. Since you said please.” Sally’s voice is harsh, but Tony knows her, knows this. Sally is worried. “What’s wrong with your brain, besides the obvious?”

 

Tony hesitates. “It’s like I’m trapped in a roofie circle, but I know for a fact I haven’t had any.”

 

“Okay.” Sally’s voice softens at the admission. “Okay. And you’re sure this is a neurologist issue? You don’t want rehab?”

  
“It’s not a rehab issue, I genuinely haven’t had any.”

 

Tony can tell Sally doesn’t believe him, not really, but she comes through with a name and an address and a suggestion to bring cash. It isn’t until he’s halfway to the clinic that Tony realizes Sally thinks the reason he wants a sketchy neurologist is the roofie legality issue, but that’s fine, it probably won’t hurt to have a doctor he can talk to about that.

 

After all, it still seems like the most likely cause of his... time problem. Tony refuses to feel guilty. He’s a magician, he needs to make people forget sometimes. And if he dips into his stash for himself, it’s his brain, it’s his right to lean into oblivion every now and again. 

 

This clinic definitely doesn’t look like a spa. It looks like an abandoned storage unit. Tony raps twice on the metal door, uncertain.

 

“Dr. Norman will see you, like, now.” A high voice calls out from the unit, and Tony can hear the clang and crash of what sounds like beer kegs rattle as the person pushes their way to the front. The storage unit opens painfully slowly, revealing a panting middle aged man who extends his hand and says, in a much deeper voice than before, “Hi, Dr. Norman here, what seems to be the problem?”

 

It’s clear that the man is out of his mind. 

 

Which, to be fair, makes two of them. “I’m trapped in either the weirdest roofie circle ever, or literal time.”

 

Dr. Norman blinks. “You’re trapped in the weirdest roofie circle ever of literal time?”   
  


“No, OR literal time. I’m either trapped in a roofie circle OR trapped in literal time.” 

 

Dr. Norman shrugs. “Sounds like a bad trip to me, man, in my professional opinion.”

 

Tony fights the urge to groan. This is what he gets for requesting a sketchy doctor. He wonders if the next time around, he should ask Sally for a medium doctor. It then occurs to Tony that he’s thinking casually about ‘the next time around’, which nearly sparks an entire separate existential crisis. 

  
“Well, you might as well come in, let me see what I can do.” Dr. Norman gestures for Tony to follow him into the storage unit, and while some good little boy part of him screams about Stranger Danger, the adult Tony tells little kid Tony to shut up. These are extenuating circumstances. 

 

Tony awards himself a mental gold star for sound identification, because yep, there are definitely a few kegs in here. There are also canisters of laughing gas, helium, and anesthesia, and Tony feels a little concerned about the definitely not big enough labels differentiating the sets. Surprisingly, there’s some artwork hanging on the walls, and even more surprisingly, Tony doesn’t hate it.

 

Dr. Norman looks back and follows Tony’s gaze. “My Starfire made that one.”

 

It’s a beautiful scene, the desert sky at night, and Tony’s heart gives a tinge of regret that he hasn’t made it out to the desert in, god, years. That used to be so exciting to him, the idea of being somewhere where the stars could be seen at night. Of course, when he actually moved to Newport, he realized that the desert was about an hours drive away, and promptly wrote off the whole endeavor as too much effort. He just got too busy.

 

“So, hop on up!” Dr. Norman slaps an examination table wedged between the canisters. 

 

Tony hates being short.

 

He hops.

 

“Alright, start from the beginning.” Dr. Norman sits backwards on a rolling chair, eyes fixed unblinkingly on Tony’s. 

 

Tony tries his best to remember everything he’s done for every day, but he’s still not sure whether he’s cycled through for four days or five so far. Dr. Norman occasionally jots something down in his notebook, but his writing is indecipherable. Tony recites his mounting fear that he’s lost his mind, that he’ll be trapped forever, that he’s cursed. 

 

After Tony finishes, Dr. Norman gives him a searching look. “Man,” He finally says. “You want a tranquilizer?”

 

Tony pauses. “Will it help?”

 

Dr. Norman nods, long and slow and totally stoned. “Oh yeah.”

 

“I mean, will it help the time problem?”   
  


Dr. Norman shrugs. “No idea. But hey, we all have time problems. Would you rather have yours with or without a tranquilizer?”

 

Tony takes the tranquilizer.

 

~~~

 

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

 

Tony blinks at the sudden noise. He’s back in his room, back in his nice pajamas. He has no idea how yesterday ended.

 

_ Note to self _ , Tony thinks.  _ Tranquilizers are an excellent way to skip to the next morning. _

 

Then it occurs to Tony that there’s literally nobody who can tell him what happened yesterday. Dr. Norman thinks it’s the first Cinco de Cuatro. Sally won’t remember his request for a doctor. Even any strangers he met yesterday won’t remember anything. He’s alone in this. The thought makes Tony want to throw up. Nothing he does matters. No one will remember, no one can even see him, not really. He feels like a ghost unable to touch life but forced to bear witness to it, and for the first time, Tony considers the possibility that he’s dead.

 

He doesn’t believe in heaven or hell, wasn’t raised like that, although his grandmother on his father’s side was Catholic and had some vocal opinions about penance. But he doesn’t remember anything definitive about an afterlife in Hebrew school. Besides, this doesn’t feel like a punishment or a reward. He isn’t being tortured, although he is going stir crazy. He’s just alone.

 

Tony thinks that might be worse. 

 

“Sally, can you find me a rabbi?”

 

Tony thinks Sally definitely doesn’t have cause to giggle so much at that. “What, are you suddenly observant? What did you do last night?”

 

Well. The answer is, he took a tranquilizer, but Sally means May 3rd. “Nothing, Sal, I just have some questions.”

 

“Are you okay?” Sally tones down the skepticism, and Tony appreciates that, he really does. “Like, existential questions?”

 

“It’s hard to explain. Can you just set me up with someone, please?”

 

“You know Search exists, right?” Sally grumbles, but she still gives him a name and an address. A smiling rabbi answers the door and pulls him into a dimly lit dining room, and offers him a nice edition of the Torah. Tony relaxes into his chair. 

 

Four hours later, Tony decides that he doesn’t want to read any more.

 

“Thank you, I’m good now, bye!”

 

On his way to Gob’s house, he searches “religions that don’t ask questions” on his phone.

 

~~~

 

“Sally, can you find me a Catholic rabbi?”

 

“... you mean a priest?”

 

“Yeah, that!”

 

Tony gets about as far as “possibly a curse” before the priest starts talking eagerly about exorcism, and about how it’s sacramental and totally safe. He emphasizes the safe part so much that Tony asks to visit the bathroom and climbs out the window. 

 

~~~

 

“Sally. My dude. What would you recommend for a potential curse? Besides exorcism.”

 

“Tony, what the goddamn hell are you talking about?”

 

Tony stares out his window. It’s another perfect, sunny day, and the movements of the partygoers below looks like a synchronized ballet to him at this point. It’s beautiful but eerie, and Tony wonders (did somebody say) if he’ll ever get the hang of things. Right now he feels clunky and clumsy, a dancer who has forgotten the steps. Which is counterintuitive, because if anything, he should have this dance memorized, but no. The beauty in the dance comes in the naturalness, the unthinking smoothness, and Tony is too frazzled to be smooth. 

 

“I think I’m cursed, Sal, and I want to get it removed.”

 

Outside, the piñata kids cross by. “Tony, did you watch like, a scary movie last night or something?”

 

His life right now is a scary movie. “No, but I am cursed. Do you know anyone that can help with that?”

 

“If you don’t want to get lunch with me, just tell me.” Sally practically growls through the phone. 

 

“No! Sally, I want to. I just need to get this handled first.”

 

Joan Bark lives about half an hour outside of town. Tony wears his favorite pants, again, because that is a perk about this curse, he never has to do laundry. It also means that if he were to do laundry, it would be completely pointless and undone the next day, but Tony’s realistic about his average level of procrastination. 

 

As Tony walks up to the trailer, he learns two things about himself. One, ostriches freak him the fuck out. Two, his clothing preferences do not lend themselves easily to desert life, notably the dust element. 

 

“Kid, you gotta learn to unclench your asshole. You’ll never let anyone in that way.”

 

He also is easily started by creepy cronelike women appearing out of nowhere, but that one’s not exactly news. He takes the long route home, because he’s clearly got the time. He drives through residential neighborhoods and tries not to get pissed at the sight of all the happy people his age with kids. 

 

It’s not that he wants that, a 2.2 child family and a wife and a dog, but as he’s gotten older, he’s felt more and more that he should want it. Even his magician friends tend to have someone to visit on weekends and fight with over custody issues. He thought maybe, with what’s her name and the kid, he would feel something, anything, but she just made him feel bored and the kid was always sticky. They never wanted or needed him, and he didn’t even mind. And Tony’s a performer, he loves attention. But attention from Bland was like the dead eyed stare of a squirrel. No practical purpose and largely disconcerting. 

 

~~~

 

Tony is getting a better mental map of Newport Beach now. He doesn’t bother calling Sally today, he just gets out of bed, shuts off John and Joni Beard, and makes his way down to Austerity. It’s basically the only clinic he hasn’t visited yet.

 

Austerity is surprisingly nice, actually. The walls are a soft cream color that reminds Tony of his grandmother’s kitchen, and the whole place smells like lemon pledge. A smiling nurse points Tony down the hall, until he reaches a private office with a heavy oak door. 

 

Dr. T. Funke. The name feels familiar somehow, but Tony’s lived today for at least two weeks now, so he’s basically burnt out on deja vu. 

 

He finally gets called into the office, and a bald man greets him with a handshake that lasts a little too long. 

 

“Dr. Tobias Funke, therapist slash analysis slash budding star, how can I help you?”

 

Tony launches into his canned explanation. He’s gotten pretty good at it. He manages to get as far as “stuck in a time warp” when Dr. Funke interrupts.

 

“-wait, you’re trapped in a time warp? I’m trapped in a time warp!”

 

Tony blinks. “Really? Oh my god.”

 

“Yes, and I can’t find my way out! Is that how you’re feeling?” Dr. Funke is making too much eye contact, but Tony doesn’t mind, because yes, god yes, finally someone is believing him.

 

“Exactly! Oh my god, man, you have no idea how rough it’s been.”

 

Dr. Funke laughs. “Oh, I think I have some idea how hard it’s been. Hard as a rock, am I right?”

 

“Yes!” Tony feels breathless. “So, what do we do? How do we get out of this?”

 

“Well,” Dr. Funke hems. “We could- we could-” his voice trails off, and Tony prepares himself for this brilliant doctor to tell him the plan and save them both. “-I’m sorry, what’s my motivation again?”

 

Tony’s taken a little aback by that, to be frank. “Um. Getting unstuck?”

 

“Right, but what I’m saying is, that feels a little too first layer for me, you hear what I’m saying? The premise needs work. What’s the emotional journey?” Dr. Funke raps his fingers on the desk. “I’ve got it! Maybe we need a music number.”

 

Tony is willing to try anything to get home. “Do you think that would work?”

 

Dr. Funke shrugs. “When doesn’t it work? Musicals engage and tickle the senses in ways straight dramas just can’t. But keep working on it, champ, this could make a very nice piece for a small venue.”

 

Wait. “Venue?”

 

“Not immediately, of course, but yes, you and a small trope of other improvisers could do quite well with this!”

 

“Are you even a therapist?”

 

Dr. Funke rolls his eyes. “Everyone’s a critic. No, I’m not ‘licensed’, and yes I’m technically ‘working off a debt to society’, but is that what’s in my breast? In my heart? No! No, sir, I am an Actor, and proud of it!”

 

“Great. Thanks.” 

 

Fucking southern California. 


	4. Like an alcoholic hamster, on one of those little wheelie things

On the fifteenth day? Twentieth? It’s at least three weeks into this whole debacle when Tony climbs out of bed without any more leads. He let’s the banal chatter of Joni and John wash over him. He gets further into their talk show than ever before, actually. 

 

When their chattering finally fades into music Tony hates, he looks out his window at the partying frat boys.  _ What the hell _ , he thinks. He knows it’s not worth it to call in sick to the Gothic Castle. It’s not like it’s going to impact his professional reputation. He’s just going to wake up again tomorrow, and again, and again, and a spike of nihilism Tony didn’t expect rams its way into his heart. It feels sticky and barbed and like it could creep over his entire life if he let it. 

 

_ Nope. Alcohol.  _ Tony decides. 

 

“Hey!” Tony approaches the group with a practiced grin. “Shots on me?” After all, his credit card bill is never going to come. The boys let out a roar of approval, and Tony figures that this can work, this will be enough for him.

 

They don’t ask him anything about his life, and he’s okay with that. 

 

~~~

 

The party boys turn out to be about as messed up as everyone else in Newport Beach. Tony must have learned their names through osmosis, because he definitely never tried to personalize any of them, but an unhelpful expert voice in his brain reminds him that JBJ is the brunette, Trout is the insanely charming one, and Chris K. is the one that starts every statement with “no offense bro”. 

 

Tony also realizes quickly that if he doesn’t initiate at least some topic, the bros will default back to the same script, which will actually drive him crazy. Crazier? He still doesn’t know why all of this is happening to him, so there is the possibility Tony’s just lost his mind, but he doesn’t worry about that any more. He just wants to stop being bored for a little while.

 

“So, JBJ, you ever seen a ghost?”

 

Tony has spent a lot of afternoons with these kids.

 

JBJ, to his credit, genuinely considers the question. “Actually, when I was younger, I saw the ghost of a cowboy in the pool house.” He shudders, nearly upturning his margarita, but Tony manages to save the glass. “Creeped me the hell out. Why, have you?”

 

He has to fight the urge to say ‘I might be a ghost’. “Nope, but my mom says she has.”

 

Trout laughs out loud. “Moms always think they’ve seen a ghost. It’s usually the Vicodin.” Disturbingly, the frat boys all laugh at that, like it’s relatable content. They spend the rest of the afternoon ranking how hot everyone’s mom and stepmom is, all inside jokes Tony’s getting surprisingly good at cracking through. He’s only known these kids for a couple of cycles now, but it’s easy to get caught up when everyone else is sticking to a script you aren’t beholden to.

 

Then again, Tony isn’t tied to much these days.

 

This day. This same damn day, over and over and over again.

 

~~~

 

One afternoon about four weeks into the time warp, Tony finally stumbles onto the right question to get JBJ to make out with him in the bathroom. 

 

It turns out that the kid is like, way insecure about how he looks on camera. Tony takes a well angled photo of JBJ from his admittedly ancient flip phone, tells JBJ he’d look great on television, and the next thing he knows, he’s pinned up against a bathroom wall by a very attractive twenty something.

 

There are some benefits to endless resets. Tony pulls the same move another six times before he gets tired of kissing JBJ.

 

~~~

 

He still meets Sally, some days, for lunch. He shows up varying degrees of wasted and enjoys exploring exactly where Sally will draw the line (four shots and a beer). 

 

He has his sex date with Gob pretty much every night. Gob is easy to convince to try new positions, body always eager and arching, so Tony gets all the perks of sleeping with the same person twice (or forty times) without all the gross monogamy feelings stuff. He gets to learn all about Gob’s body, and by the tenth time, Gob is swearing up and down that Tony is the absolute best at sex, and that’s pretty nice for a guys ego, you know?

 

He never has to deal with the aftermath, never has to say goodbye in the morning, and it’s glorious.

 

~~~   
  


Tony doesn’t mean to start thinking about sad things. It just sort of happens.

 

Around day one hundred fifty five, he gets hit with a wave of guilt so strong he has to sit down on the barroom floor for half an hour. There’s a chance, he knows, that everyone in Newport is exactly as stuck as he is. They don’t know it, but they are, and what the hell is he doing, drinking and partying while they’re the ones trapped in the truly horrifying drudge of the time loop. At least he remembers, at least he can make new choices, but Sally? Gob? 

 

What if he never figures this out?

 

By the time the bartender is dumping half glasses of water on his face in an attempt to make him sit up and stop blocking the fire exit, Tony’s resolve to fix this is strengthened. It’s ironclad. He’s got this.

 

Two bracing shots later, Tony remembers that iron rusts.

 

The idea doesn’t leave his mind once it’s been planted though. What is he doing? Who is he, to bend time like this? 

 

What if there’s something obvious he’s missing?

 

What if he could have been out of this loop months ago?

 

Tony’s brother, before he died, was good at video games. Like, competitions on weekends, parents weren’t even mad good. Sometimes David would try to teach him the special combinations that made him unbeatable, but Tony was only a kid, and his hand-eye coordination was pretty much shit until high school. David would patiently go over the buttons to press, A-A-B-A-B-B. He never gave up on Tony, never stopped offering to teach him, but Tony stopped accepting that offer eventually. It didn’t feel fair to steal David’s time like that, not when anyone and everyone in the neighborhood wanted a piece of him.

 

It wasn’t until Later that Tony realized David might have actually wanted his company. 

 

That thought is enough to make Tony leave the bar and start instantly making his way to Gob’s house, enough to make Tony break this streak of ignoring Gob’s texts and follow up call. Tony can’t keep away from him any more, not on a night like tonight, when he’s lonely and scared and super hella drunk. It’s only just getting dark outside, the cinco partiers are loosely congregating by the peer, and Tony knows without looking at his watch that this means it’s 6:20pm. He never realized before how little he paid attention to the sky, to the sun rising and setting. It always used to change, after all, bit by bit. But now the sunrise and sunset is another constant, another immovable fact of his daily life, and Tony just has to adjust around it. 

 

At 6:20pm, his brain automatically supplies, Gob is going to call and try and confirm your sex date. Then he goes to the pier with all the partiers, does something with a group of Mongolians, meets what’shername, and decides to trick you with sex masks. 

 

Tony is too tired to deal with Her right now. He doesn’t want sex with masks, he’s not even sure he wants sex at all. He just wants Gob, and he’s too drunk to care that he’s risking the possibility of Gob not wanting him back. 

 

“Why, hello there- woah.” Gob grabs Tony’s arm just as Tony’s about to pitch forward into his foyer. “Tony, hey.”

 

Tony nods, because yes, Tony is his name. “Hey.”

 

He can feel Gob’s eyes run up and down his body. “You’re drunk for Sunday, not Cinco, right?”

 

Tony nods again, feeling like a bobblehead doll, hopeless in the face of Gob Bluth’s mix of insane bluntness and scrambled spaghetti thought process. Gob doesn’t respond, just gently pulls Tony inside to the couch where they once drank a lot of water. 

 

“I wanted to see you” tumbles out of Tony’s lips before he can catch them and shove them back where they came from, some secret needy place he doesn’t want Gob to know about. 

 

But Gob is only going to know for a little while. This will all be gone in the morning. 

 

Gob’s eyebrows arch at the admission. “Okay.” The silence between them stretches into something maybe too delicate to maintain, but the thought of explaining everything to Gob, right now, right here, is just not a possibility. Before long, Tony’s eyes slip closed, and the world goes dark and sideways as he pitches into Gob’s lap. He can vaguely feel Gob stiffen, only barely taking note as an unexpectedly soft blanket tucks around his body. 

 

What feels like years later but is likely only hours, there’s a fierce whispered conversation going on between Gob and another man. Tony keeps his eyes closed, because the world is too heavy to move them right now.

 

“Who’s on your couch?”

 

“None of your business, who’s on your couch? Why are you even here, Mike?”

 

“None of your business!” The Mike guy huffs out an obnoxiously loud breath, but the next sentence comes out of his mouth like a pulled tooth. “I think I did something bad, I wish I could forget it.”

 

Tony can hear feet shuffling, can perfectly imagine Gob’s thought process at hearing those words. “I have a forget-me-now you can take. It’s my last one-”

 

“-No, I need to remember this, I need to punish myself, Gob, I think I really-”

 

“Seriously, Michael.” Gob’s voice is softer. “I don’t need it, I thought I would, but I can get more.”

 

There’s the sound of Gob walking away, clearly in search of the forget me now, and then just as quiet is starting to settle back over the room and Tony is about to drift back to sleep, the other man, Mike, sits down on the floor with a thud and whispers “I think I saw a dead body. And I knew her. Lucille Two.”


	5. You take what you are given

 

Tony wakes up, gets out of bed, and showers insanely fast, like, under fifteen minutes fast. He has work to do today.

 

When he was younger, he went on a small kid detective kick. He loved the idea of finding clues, solving mysteries in real life, but all he ever managed to solve was one fake case David set up for him with a little detective kit he bought online. 

 

This is a real mystery, a big one that needs solving, and with this whole reset thing, he’s basically invincible. There was a quote he read once about those with the ability to help being obligated to help, and this is the first time Tony’s ever had either the ability or felt the obligation. Somewhere here in Newport, someone will be killed, and only Tony can stop it, because only Tony knows it’s about to happen.

 

He doesn’t have a lot to go on. A man named Michael knows Gob, knows him pretty well, and this Mike saw a dead body last night, someone named Lucille Two, so someone Gob probably knows. Michael didn’t tell anyone. 

 

There’s only one person Tony knows who keeps a near encyclopedic reference of everyone in Newport. He presses in the familiar number, and of course, since it’s before 10am, he gets the voicemail. “Heyya, it’s Sally, leave a message at the tone!” 

 

“Hey, Sally. What do you know about the Bluth family? Call me back.”

 

When Sally calls him back less than five minutes later, Tony knows he’s picked the right person. “The Bluths?” Sally asks, breathless.

 

“Yeah-”

 

“-Tony, is everything going okay with the Gob plan? Because Tony, you need to get that number for George Maharis-”

 

“-No, Sally, it’s fine, I just.” Tony takes a deep breath. “Do you know anyone named Michael or Mike who hangs out with the Bluths?”

 

Sally lets out a snort. “Are you seriously that out of touch? Michael Bluth is like, the head of the Bluth company.”

 

“I thought that was Gob?”

 

“Uh, maybe on paper, for tax reasons or whatever, but Michael Bluth is his brother, and while he might be a dingus with a totally failed development project called Sudden Valley, he’s definitely the one calling the shots instead of Gob.” There’s a thoughtful pause. “Although, Lucille Bluth is probably the real mastermind.”

 

Lucille! Oh crap. Did Michael murder his own mother? Or, well, witness the murder of his own mother? Because that would be fucked up.

 

But then. He wouldn’t be calling her Lucille Two, right? And he’s heard the name Lucille Bluth somewhere else before... “Didn’t she go to rehab or something?”

 

“Yep.” Sally pops. “But like, that was to avoid spending time in prison, her actual crime was stealing the Queen Mary, but maritime law is a hot mess.”

 

That’s another super weird California thing that drives Tony crazy. The amount of conversations he’s had with random people about maritime law is definitely disproportionate to how much Tony feels like the average person should care about maritime law. “Okay, yeah, whatever. Sally, do you know where I can find Michael Bluth?”

 

“Are you kidding me? Tony, Michael Bluth owes Lucille Austero so much money. He’s meeting with us tonight to talk it out.” 

 

There’s a feeling deep in Tony’s chest that feels like moving puzzle pieces slotting into place. “Excellent. I’m coming with you.”

 

“We’ll talk about it over lunch. That’s not a yes, that’s a “you owe me an explanation”. See you then.” Sally hangs up without another word, but that’s just her style. Tony grins. This is much more interesting than drinking with a bunch of Newport trust fund bros.

 

Tony’s in such a good mood throughout the morning that he winds up texting Gob. Not with any particular aim, although he is hoping to get some information about his brother, but really just because Gob Bluth fascinates him. Gob’s a good texter. He replies quickly, but keeps the conversation going, and Tony is reminded of his endless charisma on stage, charisma that can keep even a disaster of an act moving forward without a script.

 

**one day i’m going to beat u out for the cover of poof :)**

 

_ good luck with that G.O.B. _

 

**u know my name isn’t spelled like that :(**

 

_ and i know how to spell ‘you’ _

 

**this is how cool young people talk, u just don’t get it cause ur not as influential as me ;)**

 

Sally picks him up in her hot pink car, and before she can suggest that awful French place again, he cuts her off with “why don’t we just get pizza? My treat.” She quirks an eyebrow but lets him recite the directions to a local pizza joint he tried last week. 

 

“You’re awfully forward today. And since when do you know your way around Newport? You have no sense of direction, you get lost on the beach.”

 

Tony shrugs. “I’ve been working on my memory, you know, pnuemonias or whatever. It’s good for magic. Hey, so, tell me about Michael Bluth?”

 

Sally launches into what feels like a very prepared rant about how Michael Bluth is not half as smart as he thinks he is, and that he has crap business sense, and how she’s going to crush him with all the might and training she’s inherited from her father. 

 

“Right, but like, what women does he hang around?”

 

“His sister, sometimes. But Lindsey has been totally awol for a while now.” Sally daintily cuts off a piece of vegetarian supreme. “Barry Zuckercorn did his divorce, he made flyers about it. I heard he was dating Rebel Alley, but that’s definitely just a wild rumor.” 

 

There’s a gleam in Sally’s eyes that Tony is well familiar with at this point. “Did you ever see him?” Tony tries to ignore the clench in his chest at the thought of Sally being the dead body. 

 

“Maybe,” Sally hums with satisfaction. “But he was way too much of a Daddy’s boy, you know?”

 

“He’s close with his father?”

 

Sally snorts. “Definitely not. But he was always trying to kiss up to mine, the pussy.”

 

“You know, that’s a complement in Brittish.” Tony takes a big bite of his pepperoni. “English? Whatever, not American. Listen, watch out for him, okay? Something about that guy doesn’t seem right to me.”

 

“Have you even met him?”

 

Tony thinks back to last night, of a whispered confession in the dark. “I think I met him once at that S.O.B. benefit.”

 

Sally winces as she grabs another dainty bite of her pizza. “Ooh, that was a trainwreck.” She gives herself a little visible shake. Then a bigger shake. Tony’s about to ask if she’s somehow given herself brain freeze while eating pizza when he notices that her normally pale complexion is taking on a distinctively blue tint.

 

“Hey, are you- Sally?” 

 

She waves him away, but Tony can see her chest shuddering. For an insane moment, he thinks she’s been poisoned, even though he really should know better, he’s choked on his food often enough that he should know the signs. But choking looks different on Sally, it looks elegant and it happens too quickly for Tony to react, to even process what’s happening. 

 

By the time he’s realized that this is real, Sally is slumped over the table. 

 

“Help! Hey, call an ambulance, someone!”

 

The EMTs arrive while Tony is still trying to do the heimlich. They exchange a look that Tony catches but refuses to accept.

 

He doesn’t accept it ever, really, not when the doctor tells him how quickly Sally’s brain succumbed to the lack of oxygen, and not even when Sally is covered with a sheet. None of this is real. He’ll live tomorrow over again, and Sally will be back. She has to be. But Tony wonders (did somebody say-, Sally helped him come up with that-) if this happened every day, or every night, after Tony leaves Sally at the restaurant, did she choke later in the day? Or does this just happen every day Tony doesn’t meet Sally at the restaurant? Is it his fault for suggesting pizza? There are too many variables and Tony fucking sucks at math.

 

In the back of his mind, Tony thinks that he should be looking for Michael Bluth. He can’t pull himself away from Sally. Around four am, the world goes soft and Tony finds himself falling asleep involuntarily, standing up.

 

~~~

 

Tony shuts off the radio and immediately calls Sally. “Hey, Sal, let me know when you get this message. I know you’re busy today, but I want to catch up, for real, not just over lunch. My show bailed” Tony crosses his fingers to cancel out the lie, “-and I could just, like, come hang out with you at work? Would that be cool? Let me know.”

 

Tony waits, heart in his throat, for half an hour before Sally returns the call. “Are you dying or something?” Sally sounds bored, but Tony can hear the genuine question in her voice.

 

“No, but-”

 

“Sorry, too busy.” Tony’s phone goes silent, and he’s left to accept that even though yesterday scared the shit out of him, to Sally it was just May 3rd. He’ll need to try a different strategy.

 

~~~

 

“Hey, Sal, let me know when you get this. I’m dying and I want to hang out.”

 

He doesn’t bother getting into the shower, he just starts laying out his outfit for the day. He never thought he’d get sick of his leather pants, and yet. He’s rather feeling the color purple for today.

 

Tony picks up on the first ring. “Did you say you’re dying to hang out, or you’re dying and you want to hang out?”

 

“I’m dying and I want to hang out.”

 

Sally groans into his ear, really unladylike. “You’re so damn dramatic. What exactly is wrong?”

 

What exactly is wrong is that he’s lived the same day a hundred and sixty times, and two cycles ago she died, but he doesn’t want to go to another neurologist, or shrink, or priest. “I have wasting disease. Come on, Sal, I just want to spend the day with you.”

 

She caves eventually, because Tony is nothing if not a determined and shrill middle aged man. “Fine! But I’m picking you up for lunch, I need the morning to take care of logistics for tonight. And then I’m heading straight back to work, where you can come if you promise not to touch anything or talk to anyone. Deal?”

 

“Deal.” Tony grins. For once, he won’t have to risk Sally Sitwell’s epic ability to hold a grudge. 

 

Sally quirks an eyebrow at his outfit when she picks him up. “Turquoise is not exactly your normal color, Tone.” 

 

Tony shrugs. “You know, that nickname doesn’t save you any time. It’s the same general length. And I’m interested in making some changes.” He does let Sally take him back to the French bistro going all out for Cinco de Cuatro, because it is funny, and Sally deserves to get her way today. To an extent.

 

“So,” Sally begins as they drive off. “I have exactly one hour and three minutes before I need to get ready for pre rally conference with Lucille Austero, and before you become my silent shadow who Won’t Talk, so use your breath wisely before then. What’s the status on Gob Bluth?”

 

Tony’s nearly forgotten about the plan to steal George Maharis’s contact info from Gob. It’s been at least a month of Cincos since he last thought about it, and probably more like three since he last cared. “It’s not going great, honestly.” 

 

“Seriously, Tony?” Sally slams on the brakes at a red light to avoid maiming a pedestrian. It’s a different pedestrian than the normal one, and Tony guesses that even something as small as changing his shirt, sparking more conversation, and delaying Sally’s terrible driving by two minutes can change the pace of the day. It’s a bizarre situation, but Tony can’t contemplate the time loop any more or he’ll really go off the deep end. “This is pivotal, Tony, I don’t think Gob will fall for the gay act a third time. What’s not working? Don’t tell me you’ve caught feelings, idiot.” 

 

“Feelings? For Gob? That’s ridic-” Tony tries to finish the word, but it lodges in his throat like a piece of popcorn. 

 

Sally snaps her head in his direction. “Oh no.”

 

“Eyes on the road, Sally!” 

 

She does pull her eyes back to the place where she’s maneuvering large machinery. “Tony. You need to handle this.”

 

Tony thinks about endless nights having sex with Gob, or ignoring Gob, or getting drunk off his ass and texting Gob. “You’re right. I will.”

 

It’s been a while since Tony let Sally take him to La Rue Fantastique. The appalling decor is worth it to have Sally smile at him and say “It’s appalling, isn’t it?”, like it’s the first May 4th and the rest of the cycles have been nothing but a brief lapse of fantasy slash nightmare that got too real.

 

Their waitress bounds over, and Tony registers her exhaustion. He doesn’t know if he’s done that before. Her name tag says Rita. “How are you?” Both he and Sally are visibly surprised at the question coming out of his mouth instead of hers, but Rita does smile.

 

“Not too bad, how about yourself? What can I get you?”

 

“Can we just get two black coffees to start?” Sally passes back the menus unopened. “After that, a light salad would be acceptable for me, and Tony will have the advertised taco special.”

 

Tony finds himself smiling at the waitress, again, like a weirdo. “When in Rome, right?”

 

The waitress- Rita- blinks. “This is a French cafe normally.”

 

“Oh, I know that it’s-” Rita walks away before Tony can finish. Well. It’s a shame she hasn’t seen the romantic comedy or heard the Very Popular figure of speech. 

 

Sally is staring at him like he’s grown a second head. “Tony, what the hell is going on?”

 

“Sally, do you think people can change?” He doesn’t realize that’s the question he’s about to ask before it tumbles out of his mouth, but once it hangs in the air for a moment, it feels right. It’s really the question that’s been on his mind for a while now, at least seven Cincos. Because he thinks maybe this endless day is changing him more than the last ten (fine, twenty five) years. 

 

“Not men.” Sally rolls her eyes. “Men don’t change.” She gestures at the very benign looking patrons of La Rue Fantastique. “See that guy over there? I’ll bet he orders the same thing every day, even when he tells himself he’ll shake it up. And that guy over there with the Dodgers shirt still roots for the team, even though they moved, just because it was the team he learned about at a formative age. The same way every guy over thirty swears up and down that the very best music was the music they listened to when they were nineteen.”

 

Tony frowns. “Hey, Queen is timeless.”

 

“And if you were eighty, you’d be saying Elvis is timeless. Or Chuck Berry. It’s fine, but it’s ridiculous to pretend like we aren’t just quirks of psychology and trauma solidified into the bare shell of a person committing a series of performative actions.” The corners of Sally’s mouth turn down. “Like, listen. Do you know how many girls from my high school married complete loser man-children?”

 

“How many?” Tony gently gestures to Rita, who’s been waiting by the edge of the table visibly frightened by Sally’s tirade, so she can finally put the food down. “Thanks.”

 

Sally stabs her fork into a romaine heart. “All of them. Except for one lesbian, who seems to be living her best life in San Francisco, and me.” 

 

Tony doesn’t even know what his friends from high school are up to, much less the statistical breakdown of his graduating class. “Why not you, then?”

 

“Look at me.” And Tony does. Sally looks stunning, like she always does, polished marble with a beach blonde sheen that makes it all look effortless. “I am the essence of Career Woman Barbie. I know it’s nepotism or whatever, but I care about my father’s company. Because it’s going to be mine. And then, once I expand with some strategic condos, I’m running for Senate, with or without Lucille Austero. I don’t have time for men. I’ve never met anyone up to my standards, no offense, and why would I settle for someone mediocre who’s still going to feel like they’re the ones doing me a favor? You know, statistically-”

 

As Sally launches into some very well memorized statistics about the health benefits of monogamy for men, Tony contemplates if he should be concerned about the possibility of the dead body being Lucille Austero’s and Sally being the murderer. Murderess? She would immediately profit from Lucille Austero being out of the way, and he doesn’t have any doubts about Sally’s willingness to kill, but it seems like if she was ever going to snap, it would be on a Bluth. 

 

Sally like, really hates the Bluths.

 

Wait.

 

“Hey, Sally? Does Gob have a sister?” By the crazy glint that appears in Sally’s eyes, Tony thinks he’s onto something. 

 

Sally full body twitches, and for a horrible moment, Tony thinks this is it, she’ll choke and die again, but then a deep guttural laugh comes out instead. “That pretentious, hypocritical-”

 

“-so that’s a yes then-”

 

“-fake nosed, only just getting into politics to drive me crazy, prostitute!” Sally huffs. “Yes, there’s a sister. I’d say we’re rivals, but I’m out of her league.”

 

Tony makes a mental note to cycle back to that later. “How are things going at work?”

 

Sure enough, that launches Sally into an admittedly long overdue vent about the stress of working for Lucille Austero while owing Lucille Austero money, and Tony tries to calculate the chances that Sally, by far his only real California friend, will murder her boss by the end of the night.

 

They’re not exactly ‘less than zero’.

 

Still, Tony spends the rest of the afternoon closely monitoring Sally in the office, and he doesn’t sense any murderous intentions. The night goes just like it usually does, and it feels safe enough to slip away to have his sex date with Gob.

 

Halfway through, Tony can’t help but ask Gob about his family. The questions have been weighing on him since his conversation with Sally. Which is probably a weird thing to ask about during sex, but Gob doesn’t seem phased.

 

“Oh- Lindsey? Yeah, um- wow - well. Yes? I have a sister?”

 

Tony gently presses behind Gob’s ear, a magic spot he discovered a few ‘weeks’ ago. “And you have a brother?”

 

“Two.” 

 

“Tell me about your childhood?” At that question, Gob stops being so giggly and pliable. “What is it?”

 

Gob shakes his head. “Tony, I’m a man of mystery. Do you want to have mask sex or not?”

 

Well. Tony does know the answer to that question. And he also knows that he has an unearthly backup way to get any other answers he wants. “Definitely want mask sex.”

 

~~~

 

Tony wakes up to the sounds of John and Joni being inane, and he smiles. 

 

“Hey, Gob, it’s Tony. How’d you feel about hanging out together before our sex date? Call me back.”


	6. Hold the beat for just one day

 

Tony learns a lot about Gob that day. For once, he gets to watch Gob go through his version of May 4th. There’s a lot more business than he expected, shady deals with Mongolians about a fake wall between Mexico and the United States. Gob tries to explain why this makes sense as a business decision, but privately Tony just accepts it as yet another overly convoluted dream of Gob’s. But he feels a little twinge of mean when he thinks that, feels like maybe Gob’s dreams come out so convoluted because no one listens to them properly and he gets flustered. 

 

After enjoying Cinco by the pier together, and and after a maskless sex date with zero involvement from Ann (Tony can finally remember her name, almost two hundred days later), Gob goes loose and loquacious, and it’s kind of magical. Not the kind of magic Tony usually is a part of, the performing for the world kind. This is something more private and even more precious.

 

“Hey, Tony. Did you know, when I was a kid, I could play the piano like, really well?”

 

“Yeah?” Tony feels like he’s on the verge of slipping away into sleep, but it’s a treat to see Gob like this, slow and relaxed like he never is during normal life. It’s actually closest to how he is on stage, all confidence and lankiness and solid, seductive timing. 

 

Gob giggles. “Yeah. Hey, what would you be if you couldn’t be a magician?”

 

“Miserable.” That answer isn’t hard to find. “I wouldn’t mind being a producer or actor, but it would have to be in the world of magic. I love performing.”

 

Gob grins. “Me too. Piano recitals were too quiet. You always knew what was going to happen, you know?”

 

“Yeah.”

 

Eventually, Gob falls asleep like that, still tangled up next to Tony, and as much as he tries to stay awake, Tony slips off into sleep too shortly after, thinking to himself that this is what he should be doing with his time.

 

~~

 

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

 

Technically, Tony should probably be trying to figure out that dead Lucille Two stuff.

 

But, well. He’s got the time. That’s the funny thing about this curse. It’s been fantastic for his anxiety, because he gets to try again and again, and the consequences never stick. He’s got enough time to spend his days how he gosh darn pleases, and right now-

 

“Hey Gob! It’s Tony. Why don’t we meet up before our sex date? I want to learn more about you. Call me back.” 

 

-this is what he wants. 

 

Gob does call back, and quickly, but he doesn’t sound like he did yesterday, bubbling over with energy. “Hey, you’d tell me if you were a reporter, a federal agent, or Gene Parmesan working for my mother, right?” His voice is flat, disturbingly so. “Cause what does that even mean, you ‘want to learn more about me’? Suspicious much?”

 

Oh yeah, Gob’s Christian Magician thing. “I would, I promise. I just want to see you.”

 

“You would turn me in to my family and the cops?”

 

Wait. “The cops?” 

 

“You have to tell me if you’re a cop. It’s the law.” Tony’s pretty sure that isn’t true. Although, if it is true, that could get him out of a jam or two, so he makes a mental note to Something Search it later. 

 

“Gob, I’m not a cop. I just want to hang out.”

 

Even the silence over the phone sounds suspicious. “No questions about the Bluth company? Or any Mexican border walls that may or may not be not or actively under construction?”

 

Tony misses his bar friends. They spoke more linearly. “Won’t even touch those topics, I promise.”

 

“Okay.” Tony can hear Gob exhale slowly. “The Gothic Castle isn’t open yet, is it?”

 

Ew, the bachelor party. “Nope. Hey, how about you show me around town?” Newport is growing on Tony, as much as he hates to admit it. It might be fun to see it through the eyes of a local that isn’t a forty five year old modelesque woman desperately trying to keep herself mentally occupied despite her tremendous racehorse of a mind and the latent sexism of a patriarchal society. 

 

“Um, Christian magician.” Right. “But... do you want to take a trip down to the border? Have you seen the desert yet?”

 

Tony saw some of the desert, but mainly he was avoiding getting stamped to death by an ostrich. “Nope! Let’s do it!”

 

He texts Sally and lets her know that he’s cancelling. Furious texts start to blow up his inbox, but he vaguely remembers from his ‘drink away the existential pain’ days that those should stop around six pm, when she gets busy with the campaign. And tomorrow is never going to come, so he can definitely put off Sally for today. 

 

Gob picks him up thirty minutes later, and Tony instantly regrets ever giving Sally grief about her Malibu Barbie car. 

 

Gob Bluth drives a limo. 

 

He doesn’t get driven in a limo. He drives a limo. 

 

Fucking Southern California. 

 

Tony tries to ask what’s up with the limo, but Gob launches into an elaborate story about popstar Marc Cherry and bees and syphilis that Tony just isn’t capable of following at eleven am. “And that’s when I ran into my son, Steve Holt!”

 

“You have a son?” Maybe Steve and his kid, him, could have a playdate or something. 

 

Gob nods. “Apparently.” He glances at Tony from the driver’s seat, looking a little wide eyed. “From, you know, high school. Sleeping with women now, ew. Paternity is really unpredictable though. The guy’s got this insane hairline. But we almost started a father son Terminator business together.”

 

“Terminator?”

 

“You know, killing termites?” Gob explains. “I couldn’t do it. I mean, can you imagine me, the guy in a limo, killing bugs?”

 

Honestly, Tony can’t either. Gob is too big and bright to be a behind the scenes sort of person. “Nope.”

 

He’s just agreeing with Gob, but it still makes Gob grin like crazy, as if Tony has given him a massive declaration of faith and support. “Exactly. Lucky you, you probably don’t have any annoying kids, what with the gay magician thing.”

 

Guilt pricks the back of Tony’s throat. “Actually-”

 

“-hey, we’re here!” Gob pulls off the main road onto dust and gravel, and the resulting noise makes it impossible for Tony to explain that actually, he’s much more of like, a Kinsey 3, and he does have a son, with Gob’s ex-almost-wife. It’s probably for the best. He can always save that for another day, and he doesn’t want to wreck today with an overly convoluted revelation. 

 

Gob finally stops the limo by a dilapidated sign reading ‘Father B’s Sweat Lodge and Business Seminar’. He opens the door for Tony, weirdly enough, and Tony finds it startlingly sweet. And upon surveying the abandoned sweat lodge, he notices something startlingly familiar.

 

“Isn’t that your Amazing Jesus cave?”

 

Gob grins. “Yeah! It was a sweat lodge for rich assholes for a while, then it was a beehive, but my bees finally recovered from colony collapse and have flown the coop.” Gob starts walking toward the cave with his stupid long legs, so Tony power walks to catch up. “Do you have any pets?”

 

“Nope.” Tony does like cats, but he doesn’t want to leave one alone in his apartment all day. “Had a dog growing up. What about you?”

 

Gob scrunches up his face when he’s thinking hard.  _ And it’s cute _ , whispers an incredibly unhelpful voice in Tony’s mind. “I think as kids, we also had a dog. But it was before Buster. I think his name was Steven.”

 

Tony snorts. “Steven? Why?”

 

“Well, I think it was Steven because Eve Holt always liked the stories about him, and that’s what she named the kid.” Before Tony can clarify that he wants to know why the dog was named Steven in the first place, they’re at the entrance of the cave, and he has to suppress a full body shudder. There’s something spooky about the space, some energy remnants that remind him of a gym full of jocks and testosterone. Gob, of course, looks ecstatic. “So. Have you ever done a sweat lodge?”

 

“I’ve done a sauna before.” Admittedly, it was at his Grandma’s retirement center gym when he was twelve. “Wait, why are you taking your shirt off?”

 

It turns out that Gob can build a fire in about the same amount of time that it takes Tony to take off his pants. There’s still a water bucket for creating steam outside the door, and before Tony can spiral into his usual knots of ‘this is such a bad idea’, he’s sitting mostly naked with Gob Bluth in a sweat lodge in the desert. The steam twists lazily in the air, pushed in and out with their heavy breaths. It’s beautiful in a benign way, just droplets of water captured mid air by a pulsating sunbeam, all the ordinary elements Tony supposes are around them all the time, turned magical by circumstances of time and place. 

 

The heat is almost unbearable, but Gob looks completely at ease, and Tony would rather eat gluten free bread than admit to Gob that there’s a chance he has the superior constitution. Besides, Tony is a magician who once boiled himself alive in chowder. He can handle humidity. 

 

“I keep reliving the same day over and over again. I’m trapped in a Sisyphean nightmare with no escape. Also I think your brother witnessed a murder.”

 

It turns out the heat loosens up Tony’s tongue as much as it loosens up his other muscles. He holds his breath, afraid to look at Gob, as he remembers every doctor, therapist, and self proclaimed witch that told him he was absolutely crazy. 

 

“Hey.” There’s a soft touch on Tony’s shoulder. “Same.”

 

Tony blinks. “You believe me?”

 

“Sure.” Gob shrugs. “Like I said, I also got syphilis in a roofie circle, so-”

 

“-no, Gob. Sisyphean, like the greek myth.” It’s clear that this doesn’t register. “And I’m not in a roofie circle. I’m not missing time, I’m stuck in time.” And that’s what it feels like, like Tony’s a bug trapped in amber, unable to get off of this ride or days and days, unable to make any real changes or impact any more.

 

Gob doesn’t call him crazy. Which is probably fair, given how many people in the magic community have stories about the insanely gullible Gob Bluth, but Tony still feels immensely grateful that Gob’s hearing him out. “How long have you been stuck in time?”

 

Tony winces. “Around two hundred of the same day. Today. I’ve lived today over so many times, Gob, and no one ever believes me.”

 

“I do,” Gob tosses out, casually, as if it’s a given, this one thing no one else was willing to say to him. “So are you like, immortal? Is it always just today? Is this why you’re good at magic? Does it switch over at midnight? What’s going to happen tonight?”

 

Tony’s got this. “I don’t exactly want to test whether I’m immortal, but I don’t get hangovers like this. It’s only today, always May fourth. And no, asshole, I’m good at magic because I’m Tony Wonder. I don’t know when it switches over, but it’s not midnight. And-” Tony takes a deep breath. “Tonight, Ann Veal, your almost wife, is going to convince us to do our sex date with masks, for some reason, because you want to catch me sleeping with a woman, which like, dude, that’s such a dick move, but somehow we always end up sleeping together, and then one time your brother mentioned seeing Lucille Two’s dead body. Sally Sitwell choked once, and that was awful. The Mongolians you hired to build a fake Mexican wall kind of trash Cinco de Cuatro. And I think your boyfriend, George Maharis, gets threatened by Anonymous, the hacktivist organization? A lot of things happen.”

 

“My boyfriend?” Somehow, that’s what Gob gets stuck on. “Oh! George M- that guy. We broke up.”

 

“Oh.” Tony’s not sure what to say. “Recently? I’m sorry.” He assumed they weren’t exclusive, since, well, Gob sleeps with him regularly. But actually, to Gob, it’s just one night. To Tony it’s regularly, and that discrepancy in experiences suddenly feels much larger than it ever did before.

 

What if Gob views their May fourth as a mistake every time?

 

Gob waves off Tony’s concern about his breakup. “It’s whatever. You’re trapped in a magic time loop, we’re talking about you.” Gob’s stare is intense. “Who else knows?”

 

“Well, no one. Today is everyone else’s first Cinco de Cuatro. I tried to tell Sal-” Tony remembers last minute that they need to keep their affiliation a secret, “-doctors. Some doctors, at the beginning, but since today I’ve only told you, they don’t remember. You won’t remember this tomorrow, because it’s just me who repeats the day.” Which frankly, is still the part that freaks Tony out. Do Gob and the others really forget each time? Or is this curse really just for Tony?

 

“So, you’ve got the ultimate forget-me-now.” Gob slaps Tony suddenly on the back. “That’s incredible!”

 

Tony privately grouses that Gob wouldn’t be so enthusiastic if he was the one that was trapped. “It’s okay. I just want to get unstuck, at this point.” 

 

“What?” Gob exclaims, indignant. “Tony, this is such a gift! You’re pulling one over on the universe!”

 

“Right, but nothing I do stays.” Tony lives for the applause, for attention. Right now, the universe is putting a big fat nope on that way of rolling through life. He can do whatever he wants and no one will remember, no one will care.

 

Gob groans. “Exactly. You get to try out today as many times as you want. You can do things without consequences.” 

 

“What would you do if you were me? Because I did go on a bender that lasted like, a month, but it got boring after a while.”

 

Gob is so quiet that Tony worries for a moment he’s passed out in the sweat lodge. They can barely see each other through the steam. “If I could do what you’re doing, I would be so happy, Tony. I would learn more about the business, and it would be okay if my questions were dumb because no one could remember it. I would practice piano until I was really good again. I would prank Michael, I would become such a good magician, better than you.”

 

“I already think you’re better than me.” Tony is surprised at the admission that comes out of his mouth, but hey, like Gob said. Today is a day of no consequences for Tony.

 

“Really?” Tony can only see flashes of Gob’s face, but even the reduced visibility can’t block how bright his smile is. Tony’s seen Gob from a million different angles at this point. He’s seen Gob bent over in sexual and non sexual ways, witnessed Gob half asleep and experienced Gob fully buzzed. This is something different. 

 

Tony shrugs. “Yeah, man. You have a stage presence that’s unbeatable, a raw magnetism. I can’t look away.”

 

“Can I get that in writing?” Gob asks.

 

“It’ll disappear tomorrow, Gob.” But Gob’s eyes look so sad at that, Tony can’t let the harsh fact hang in the air for too long. “Hey. I’ll tell you again tomorrow, okay? That way we can hang out again.” 

 

Gob’s smile comes back. “Really? You want to see me again?”

 

Tony has to laugh. “Gob. I’ve seen you for at least a hundred and fifty Cinco de Cuatros.” 

 

It isn’t until later, after Tony’s experienced sweat lodge sex and nearly died of dehydration twice, that it occurs to him that this thing he has with Gob might be edging toward a real relationship. 

 

Crap. Sally’s going to kill him.

 

He might be falling in love with Gob Bluth.


	7. See today what we won't see until tomorrow

_ “Hola ami-” _

 

Tony’s getting really good at shutting off his alarm quickly. And showering faster, now that he thinks about it. When you only have less than twenty four hours before a total reset, time suddenly feels a lot more valuable. 

 

“Hey, Gob! It’s Tony.” Goddamn. His face feels weird? Like warm? “Which you know, because caller ID is everywhere now. Anyway. We should hang out! I have something weird to tell you. Not like, scary weird, just weird weird. A magic thing! Kind of. Call me!”

 

That’s... odd. 

 

He’s called Gob countless times to confirm a sex data. Why does calling for a normal, totally platonic hangout feel so much harder? 

 

Right. Feelings. 

 

Gob does call back quickly, at least. “What do you have to tell me? Is it magic secrets? Are you going to tell me how you do the Hanukkah cookie illusion?” His enthusiasm is, frankly, adorable.

 

“I want to tell you in person.” Being trapped in time isn’t really something you can tell someone about over the phone. “Do you want to go to the beach with me?”

 

Tony can hear the surprise in Gob’s voice. “Sure. Want me to pick you up?”

 

“Okay, thanks.” Tony tells Gob his address, and emotionally prepares himself to ride in the limo again. 

 

It takes a while for them to find a fairly unoccupied beach. Even though Tony is still living life consequence free today, Gob doesn’t know about that yet, so his fear of being outed is still very real. Privately, Tony thinks Gob would be happier if he wasn’t The Christian Magician. It just doesn’t fit Gob, and it’s a weird niche to go after. It’s completely inappropriate to critique another magician’s stage persona though, so Tony keeps quiet and they just find a cove that’s almost completely empty. The only other person there is a hippie looking man who waves cheerfully at Gob. 

 

“Do you know him?”

 

Gob shakes his head. “I don’t think so.” He laughs. “With forget-me-nows, who can say, really?”

 

Tony takes a moment to thank this cruel universe for providing him with a natural segue. “Speaking of forget-me-nows and memory, I’m trapped in time. I’ve lived this day several hundred times and I can’t escape. I told you about it yesterday but you can’t remember it because my yesterday is your today.”   
  


Gob blinks. “I sucked at physics. Say again?”

 

Once Tony finally gets Gob to understand the time loop concept, he’s just as excited as he was last time. “Tony, this is incredible!”

 

Tony kicks at the sand. “I guess it is.” He takes a deep breath. The salt in the air feels raw and right. “Gob, I need to ask you about something that happened one of the cycles. I was on your couch, and someone named Michael came in. He said that he saw a dead body, Lucille Two? Do you know what that’s about?”

 

“Lucille Two?” Gob blanches. “That’s Lucille Austero, my mother’s best friend. Also I slept with- with. Her. Husband?” 

 

Tony doesn’t bother getting into that hot mess. “Do you know any other Michael’s besides your brother?”

 

Gob shakes his head emphatically. “I barely know anyone besides my brother. And my sister. My other brother doesn’t get out much. I’m still blacklisted from the Magician’s Alliance, that was my primary social group.”

 

“So it was your brother who saw, well, will see, Lucille Two’s dead body?”

 

“I guess so.” 

 

He and Gob end up back at Gob’s place. Of course they do. They drink enough hard lemonade to make the world go pleasantly fuzzy. Which, unfortunately, is a lot of lemonade, because the alcohol content is shit. Tony has to pee, like, every thirty minutes.

 

It’s still nice. Tony manages to convince Gob to play the piano for him, and it’s beautiful. He’ll have to ask Gob for piano lessons later, if he’s still stuck here. 

 

He probably is still going to be stuck here. His immortality stares him in the face more and more these days. If he hasn’t broken this curse yet, there’s really no reason to believe he’ll ever be able to manage it. Gob falls asleep mid sentence, mouth open and some drool escaping. Normally it would be gross, but to Tony, it just looks delightfully human and wonderfully Gob.

 

On a whim, he slips out and wanders down to the pier. It’s nearly midnight, but Tony knows he doesn’t cycle over exactly at midnight. It’s more of a two am transition, or whenever Tony falls asleep. 

 

He finds the man slumped over in a drunken stupor, staring wistfully at the ocean water, and Tony knows in his gut who he is.

 

“Michael?” 

 

Michael Bluth turns almost comically slowly. “Hey... guy. Do I know you?”

 

Tony’s given up on hedging the answers to those kinds of questions. “A little, we met once or twice. I know your brother.”

 

“Which brother?” 

 

“Gob,” Tony replies, ignoring the twinge in his heart at the thought of Gob waking up and missing him, thinking he’s been abandoned. But the slate will be wiped clean tomorrow, and he can try to make it up to Gob then.

 

Michael’s eyes bore into Tony’s with unexpected ferocity. “Why are you making that face?”

 

“What face?” Tony takes a seat next to Michael on the ground. He’s given up caring about his pants. 

 

Michael gestures wildly at all of Tony. “That face! When you said his name. Are you thinking of the right Gob?”

 

Tony has to laugh a little at that. “Tall guy, magician, hyperactive?” Michael nods fiercely, almost upending himself in the process. “Yep, that’s the Gob I know and love.”

 

The word slips out before Tony has the chance to catch it. Michael’s eyes widen. “Huh,” he mutters. “Maybe George Michael was right about my people skills being rusty.”

 

George Michael, aka George Maharis, aka Gob’s “boyfriend”, aka Gob’s actual nephew, aka Michael Bluth’s son. Tony had to draw several crazy looking diagrams with Sally to get the Bluth family tree sorted out, but he thinks he has a handle on it now, at last. 

 

“You really love him?”

 

Tony nods.

 

“Weird.” Michael squints at Tony’s face. “He doesn’t know, I’m assuming.”

 

Once, Tony told Gob he loved him mid sex date. Gob jumped out of an actual second story window. “No, he doesn’t know.” It’s almost slipped out, so many times, now that they’re actually spending time together. Now that Tony is giving Gob his time and his days. Well. Day. But Tony remembers Gob jumping out the window, and he remembers that to Gob, this has all been only one day. This is the day after May 3rd, not Day 248, give or take, like it is for Tony. So he doesn’t try and tell him a second time, even though now it feels more real than it ever did during the sex date era.

 

Michael continues, “But I was in love once, you know, with a girl. My wife. I loved and was loved and had a family.” 

 

Tony’s learned a lot of things since this whole mess has started, but maybe the most useful has been listening. “Yeah? Tell me about that, bud.”   
  


“Well,” Michael hiccups. “She died.”

 

“I thought Barry Zuckercorn-”

 

“-UGH! That guy!” Michael gestures fruitlessly. “He’s always telling people that. No, she died, and I was so, so sad.” 

 

“I’m sorry.” And Tony means it too. He doesn’t let himself remember his brother, but he does think about how he’d feel if Gob wasn’t around any more, how heart stoppingly terrifying that thought is. “What was she like?”

 

Michael’s face lights up, and for once, Tony can see the resemblance between the brothers. “Beautiful. Smart. Kind. She would stand up to my mom, you know. Mom liked her, she never liked Tobias, but she liked Tracey. Liked her energy.”

 

Tony decides to tread carefully. He knows he could just do this over again (and again and again) tomorrow, the next time time resets, but this moment feels sacred and special. He has the sense he should only do it once and do it right, the way things are meant to be done. “Hey, Michael?”

 

“Yeah?” Michael’s eyes dipped closed but shudder back open at Tony’s voice.

 

“Did you see anything tonight that reminded you of Tracey?”

 

It’s a beautiful night. The stars are gleaming in the sky and reflected loosely in the water, and a cool breeze makes the air feel crisp and fresh, despite all the trash in the water. So Tony is surprised when after a pause so deep he thinks he’ll never get an answer, Michael points a shaky finger towards the pier and he’s hit with the sight of Lucille Austero tangled up in a fishing net, submerged in the surf, being gently tossed like a rag-doll.

 

“Yeah.”

 

Tony thinks about throwing up, but pushes it back down his throat. “Did you see what happened?”

 

Michael just blinks tears out of sad eyes at him. “I was going to have sex with her for money. She fell.”

 

Okay, make that two points of similarity between the Bluth brothers. The ability to convey sunshine through the face alone, and an insane tendency to skip straight to prostitution as a problem solver. “How did she fall?”

 

Michael, of course, doesn’t answer. He just hiccups and looks out at the horizon. The ocean is almost indistinguishable from the sky now, both a dark blue that borders on impenetrable darkness. Storm clouds gather far from the shore, and Tony wonders (did somebody say-) if they’ll ever hit Newport. It never rains on Cinco de Cuatro, but what about actual May 5th? For all that Tony’s learned about May 4th, he’s just as blind as anyone for the next day and the eternity available after that. This immortality of endless resets is limited. 

 

“Do you ever think about death?” 

 

At first, Tony’s not sure if the question came from him or Michael, but the other man’s mournful eyes are clearly waiting for a response.

 

“I do.” Tony tries to decide if he should tell Michael about the resets, but it feels cruel. “I never used to. I’m a magician-”

 

“-of course he is,” Michael mutters. Tony pretends not to hear that.

 

“-so you do think about safety, about the risk. But I’m not, or at least I wasn’t, a huge thinker, you know? I can overthink like nobody's business about the small stuff, but the big questions? Nah.” Tony’s not sure what to call this new feeling. He feels older than he did back on May 3rd, but lighter. Light in a way that lets him still walk on the earth, feel the ground more richly than he ever did before. “Do you?”

 

Michael shrugs. “Always. But I have a son. Had a son? He’s still my son, but he’s mad at me.”

 

“Sounds about right.” There are a lot of people mad at Tony in this world. Exes, family members, other magicians. “What did you do?”

 

“I dated his girlfriend. But it was an accident!” 

 

Bluths. Honestly. “Again, sounds about right.” Michael looks like he’s on the verge of passing out, so Tony lifts him to his feet. “Let’s get you to Gob, okay? You can sleep at his house.”

 

Even though he’s nearly asleep, Michael snorts. “It’s not his house, it’s mine, obviously.”

 

“Sure. Your house.”

 

~~~

 

_ “Hola amigos! Feliz Cinco de Cuatro!”  _

_ “It’s a bright and sunny eight a.m. in the OC, and Joni, can you imagine anything better than throwing chorizos in the bay today?” _

_ “You know John I hear in Mexico that ‘cinco’ means five!” _

_ “Why can’t they just say five? Well, who’s to say on that. And now, to the weather. It’s going to be a-” _

 

Tony takes a moment to breathe before shutting off the alarm. Goddamn, he might actually need to look into yoga, he’s starting to get the appeal. At this rate, he’ll be a bonafide Californian before he’s out of the time loop.

 

If he gets out of the time loop. Tony’s moved past d enial, anger, bargaining, and depression, so now he’s in acceptance land and things are fine. He still wants to, needs to try and save Lucille Austero’s life. If he can just figure out how, he’ll do it every time, because no one deserves to die like that, in a freak accident slash manslaughter on an insane imaginary holiday only celebrated by Newport Beach. 

 

Well. Tony’s always been good at planning. 

 

“Hi, Gothic Castle? I’m cancelling my show today, sorry about that.” Tony gives a fake cough. “I’m too sick to perform.”

 

“Sure, enjoy your sick day slash get better.” The stage manager clearly doesn’t believe he’s really sick, but that’s okay. The bachelor party will go fine even without Tony to vomit on. He’s only calling as a courtesy, but it’s starting to feel important to do this day right. 

 

His next call is to Sally. “Hey, Sally. I’m sorry, I don’t think I can make it to lunch. Rain check? See you later.”

 

Sally doesn’t call back, but she does text that it’ll be his job to do the scheduling if he takes this rain check. Which is fair enough. Sally is a busy woman, and Tony is technically a freelancer. 

 

He’s lived this day long enough. He knows that around eight pm tonight, Gob will meet with the Mongolians. Lindsey Bluth and Sally will both have their campaigns. There’s a super lame Fantastic Four musical that’s totally not worth the time that starts at nine. And around ten thirty, eleven pm, he and Gob would have their sex date if there aren’t any other changes. Near midnight, Michael Bluth finds Lucille Austero’s dead body under the pier. 

 

It feels a little like Tony’s been trapped in a video game. A very large video game, with side quests and a sprawling map. But now he knows the world, knows the challenges he has to meet, and he’s ready to level up.

 

He can’t do it alone. 

 

The facts hit him like a freight train. He can’t do this alone. He’s too in his head, he’s too prone to panic, to overthinking. He needs the opposite of that, he needs spontaneity to balance him out.

 

He needs Gob.

 

“Hey, Gob. I could really use your help. Call me back, please.”

 

Gob calls him back instantly. “Tony! What’s up? You need me?”

 

Tony has to resist the urge to make an innuendo. “I do. Gob, we’re going to stop a manslaughter tonight.”

 

“Awesome!” 

 

Tony freaking loves Gob. 

 

They set their plan in motion while the vendors are getting ready for Cinco de Cuatro. Gob’s job is to keep Lucille Austero distracted and safe, while Tony’s job is to keep Michael as far away as possible. They’re both going to avoid the political rallies, the Mongolian riot, and the Fantastic Four musical.

 

The amazing thing is, Gob doesn’t ever need Tony to explain how he knows all of this is going to happen. He just assumes Tony read the event website. 

  
Tony has his secret weapon up his sleeve, of course. His bar friends are on standby, ready to help de-escalate the riot situation. And he didn’t even need to tell them anything either, he just promised to buy them a drink if they kept an eye on the safety and well being of the Cinco partiers. He gets the impression that it’s not so much the alcohol that appeals to them as it is being trusted with something. 

 

It’s funny how much people want to help.

 

Tony still thinks Southern California is a load and a half of bullshit. But there are some moments, like this, when he thinks that maybe everyone putting on a friendly face has some benefits. Like they’re practicing being nice so much that they eventually are nice, deep down.

 

Tony also never used to believe in deep down. 

 

_ Hey, Gob, you ready? _

 

**absolutely. ihave lucille two cornered. im pitching that musical idea actually**

 

Tony spots Ann by the cotton candy, and instinctively moves to say hello. Her glare is completely earned, but still hurtful. “Hi, Ann. How are you doing?”

 

She blinks. “Did you just call me Ann?”

 

“Isn’t that your name?” Tony’s going to feel exceptionally embarrassed if it turns out her name has been like, Charlotte this whole time.

 

“It is.” Ann frowns. “No one ever remembers my name.”

 

That’s- really kind of sad, actually. “I’m sorry, I know I’ve-”   
  


She waves away his apology. “It’s fine. What are you doing here?”

 

“That’s a long story.” Tony can’t help but laugh. “I’ll tell you later. Hey, little guy.” He looks at Ann. “How’s he doing? Is he doing school yet?”   
  


Ann rolls her eyes. “Don’t try to be chummy, bud. Move along. I have everything under control.”

 

The thing is, she really does. Ann is a good mother. “Alright. I’ll see you later.”

 

Tony figures it’ll be another half hour before Michael shows up. He takes the moment to grab a churro. Cinco de Cuatro is sort of growing on him. It’s still probably racist, but the people of Newport really do seem to get into the celebration. He’s never seen a town get this excited over a minor, local holiday. 

 

There are some good things about Newport after all.

 

**maybe got funding for magic show musical? sorry she likes my voice**

 

Like beautiful, overeager Gob Bluth. 

 

Damn, Tony’s really screwed. But he doesn’t mind. Gob is like no one else he’s ever met before. Everyone else Tony’s dated has either been doggedly self serving or bland beyond measure (sorry Ann). Gob is warmth and chaos captured into a human ball of zest for life. He’s dramatic and fragile, but somehow still the steadiest, most reliable person in Tony’s life.

 

He loves him. And he knows it’s too soon for that, linearly. To Gob, this is their second real date. Tony does suspect though, that when Gob does fall in love, he falls hard and fast. Maybe this time is the best of both worlds, a chance for Tony’s heart to grow three sizes to match Gob’s. 

 

Michael Bluth appears in the distance, and Tony shakes himself out of his fantasizing. It’s show-time. “Michael!”

 

Michael turns in slow motion, and yep. He’s already wasted. “Do I know you?”

 

Tony seamlessly pulls Michael away from the Lucille Austero stair car. “I know your brother, Gob. Listen, I heard you owe Lucille Austero some money?”

 

Really, Michael shouldn’t look so shocked, everyone in Newport knows the Michael B. company is broker than John Beard. “How did you-”

 

“-Michael, it’s fine. Listen, I know Sally Sitwell. We can work out a payment plan tomorrow, you’re too drunk right now. Let me get you home.”

 

Thank god the Bluths are pliable when intoxicated. Tony hails a cab and personally escorts Michael to the model home. And then personally padlocks all the doors and windows. “Just take a nap, Michael, okay? I’ll come let you out tomorrow!” Tony feels slightly guilty at the white lie, but it’s just a technicality. Tomorrow for him will be today again for Tony, so ‘tomorrow morning’ for Michael he will, sort of, be unlocked. Or, neverlocked? Is that a thing?

 

_ All clear on your end? _

 

**yep. lucille likes the musical idea. so does her brother, they want to call in the morning. also i maybe convinced her to drop out of the race on accident (dont b mad pls)**

_ Wait, who will run in her place? _

 

**sally apparently. R u mad?**

 

_ Where are you? _

_ And no, I’m not mad. This is perfect, actually. _

 

**im by the peer :D**

 

Tony finds Gob fairly easily. The height is a dead give away. “Hey.”

 

“Hey yourself.” Gob smiles. “How did things go with Michael?”   
  


“Pretty good. What’s this about funding for my dream musical?”

 

Gob blushes, and it’s visible even in the night. His freckles smoosh together, and it’s adorable. “Well, I remember you telling me about it. Back on our first date. And Lucille kept asking me what I wanted to talk to her about, so I panicked, and I started telling her about it. And she really liked it! She wants me to be in it, but I told her it’s both of us or nothing.”

 

They’re in public, but it’s dark, and Tony doesn’t care. He pushes himself forward and kisses Gob with all of the pent up love and energy he has in his heart. He’s about five seconds into the kiss before he realizes that actually, he’s never kissed Gob before. They’ve had sex hundreds of times, but he’s never done this before, this ferocious, clothes on demonstration of affection. He’s about to pull back when Gob finally unfreezes and kisses back, and oh.

 

This is what Tony wants to do forever, this is what he’ll spend all of his time on. Forget drinking, forget magic, hell, screw lunch with Sally. He wants to kiss Gob under the stars for as many todays as he gets. 


	8. Now I'm here

Something is wrong. 

 

Tony wakes up with a pit in his stomach. He’s not panicking, not yet, but alarm bells of Wrong Wrong Wrong are ringing in his head, and-

 

_ “Well, Joni, that was one great Cinco de Cuatro, wasn’t it?” _

 

_ “John, darling, you know I have a hangover. Can we cut to the weather?” _

 

_ “In our forecast today, I explain to my ex-wife what professionalism is-” _

 

Tony’s heart skips a beat. Slowly, so slowly, he exhales. There’s a strange pressure on his leg, and he’s almost afraid to turn and see if it’s really what he thinks it is. 

 

He can’t handle this. 

 

If it’s really May fifth, if it’s really tomorrow, how can he manage only living one life again? Only getting one chance? He’s messed up so many things over the years, and if that’s really Gob next to him, cutting off his circulation, how can he ever handle being entrusted with someone so precious? 

 

Then again, how can he throw this away again? 

 

“I’ve wasted so much time.” The thought slips out of his mouth before he can censor it, and the lump by his side shifts at the sound, drawing his attention before he can control himself. 

 

It’s Gob. In his bed. In his bachelor pad. Is he still a bachelor if he’s in love with a man? It feels like a no, but he’ll have to ask Gob, maybe see how he feels about cats and a joint show, and how to treasure the precious days ahead of them, and god, he’s already so out of his depth.

 

“Mhmph.” 

 

“What’s that?” Tony allows himself to get pulled back down under the covers. Gob is taller and stronger than him, after all. 

 

“You’re thinking too loud.” Gob mumbles. “Sleep more. Think less.”

 

And that’s the best idea Tony’s heard in ages. 

 

~

 

“... SHIT, MICHAEL!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HAPPY GROUNDHOG DAY EVERYONE!


End file.
